


Under The Crescent Moon: Power, Corruption & Lies/The Hurting

by JanetKWallace



Series: Under The Crescent Moon [1]
Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Adulthood, Allegories, Anal Fixation, Anima and Animus, Apathy, Art, Carl Jung - Freeform, Carpe Diem, Character Study, Childhood, Classism, Collective Consciousness, Culture, Customs, Dualism, Duty, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empiricism, English, Escapism, Ethical Dilemmas, Ethnicities, Evolution, Existential Crisis, F/M, Fantasy, Final Fantasy IX - Freeform, Freudian Elements, Friedrich Nietzche, Friendship, Haecceity, Hegel, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Independent fiction, Inheritance, Insecurity, Kant, Love, Magic and Science, Marriage, Matter of Life and Death, Memory, Mental Health Issues, Metamorphosis, Metaphors, Middle Ages, Modern Era, Moral Dilemmas, Morality, Multiculturalism, Oral Fixation, Origin Myths, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Patriarchy, Patriotism, Phallic Fixation, Philosophy, Pregnancy, Pride, Psychologic Realism, Psychossexual Development, Quiddity, Racism, Rationalism, Religion, Schopenhauer, Sigmund Freud - Freeform, Slice of Life, Social Darwinism, Social Issues, Social contract, Soliloquy, Stream of Consciousness, Submission, Synchronicity, Theology, Traditions, War, Will above Reason, Wish Fulfillment, Xenophobia, artwork, aurea mediocritas, behavior, body - Freeform, eternal recurrence, fraternity, ignorance, knowledge, locus amœnus, oedipus complex, poem, society, soul, transgressive fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 108,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27366535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanetKWallace/pseuds/JanetKWallace
Summary: Power, Corruption & Lies: "Post hoc, ergo propter hoc". The priori; with the bad moon rising at the horizon, beyond the heavy and mysterious sea of Mist, no blood is thicker than the ink belonging to a collection of stories, tails, vignettes, thoughts, reckonings, short poems of a world who revolves around the tip of the spear, gray alike the clouds that lightened and obscured of their own history.The Hurting: "If faith is what driven us together in search of yourself, then we must try to do it on a leap". The posteriori; from the idyll to the youth to the decay of substance, life goes on and on in this real life fantasy, alike the path taken by the Crescent and her ancestors, who once shared of same blood ingrained on that red coat. While her youth dreams are kept alive, only the fear, the failure and the spea can block the way to achieve a purpose in a life under the rain.
Series: Under The Crescent Moon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028286
Kudos: 2
Collections: FinalFantasy FF, Finalfantasy00





	1. The New Stone Age

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Last Cherry Blossom](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/709087) by Jota Te. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Current) Index
> 
> Power, Corruption & Lies (First Half) (Ongoing):
> 
> The New Stone Age, A Place To Call Home, Snowflakes Are Dancing, When The Tigers Broke Free, Jeux Sans Frontières, Perfect Circle, Sunday Morning, ABC Auto-Industry, The Army Now, The Path Of Least Resistance, The Big Sleep In Search Of Hades, Nightporter, Toyota City, Ties of Sea and Flames, Alberto Balsalm, 5 8 6, Little Trouble Girl, The Hall Of Mirrors, Fall On Me, After The Flood, Love Comes Tumbling, How To Cure A Weakling Child, Further, An Cat Dubh, WIshlist, Yulquen, A Street Scene, Storms...
> 
> Playlist: www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2
> 
> The Hurting (Second Half) (Ongoing)

[♫Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark - The New Stone Age♫](https://youtu.be/6bCCF3rg8lA)

* * *

_At the end of the 18th Century, new high developments in agriculture, trade and engineering changed abruptly life-styles and outlooks from those who live on Gaia, resulting in a massive exodus from the country people to the main powered nations of the continent. Either the Kindgom of Alexandria, home of major Literacy, the Kindgom of Lindblum, known as the birthplace of new Inventions, or the Dark and Corinthian city of Treno. At the same time, people were witnessing a technological development never sent before, where new consumption habits and artistic movements were born and interwine with each other. Men both young and old dreamed that one day they could live the life of a nobleman._

_The fields where those people lived before they came at the big cities are surrounded by an immense Mist, that appeared a long time ago and for this reason, the entire continent is also known as the Mist Continent. Since the Mist began to be discharged into the atmosphere, a rampant number of monsters were born, and conflicts between the human communities forced the old habitants who lived in the plains migrate to the plateaus of the continent, centralizing their new spots above the Mist. The inhabitants of Lindblum were the first to develop mist-powered engines, primarily used to power airships. Besides those manufactured airships only function when there's mist, the invention of engines capable of convert mist into energy revolutionized the technology around the time, allowing Lindblum engineers the invention of new steam-powered transportation vehicles in the late of the century, such as air cabs, capable of transport people to the other districts of Lindblum. This and other ground-breaking inventions lead Lindblum on it's path to be self-declared the major nation of Gaia._

_However, as the city population grew massively, several problems happened. The increased waste produced by growing populations eventually lead to potential health hazards, such as cholera or dysentery, both transmitted by contamined water. Many people also have been fooled by the failure of new technologies that only provide a good life based on abysmal work conditions, resulting in the loss of a limb for those unfortunate enought to work on these factories. Even the children had been exposed to danger, with the high risk of being stuck inside a dirty chimney and later getting contaminated by respiratory diseases throught the remainig of their low-life. The idea of an unreachable progress of those who were working hard in search for better living conditions at any cost eventually led to the rampant increase of alternative ways to escape the harsh reality they lived, throught alcoholism, prostitution and even suicide._

_As if the situation was nowhere to be even worse, the internal crisis of each capital was followed by a geopolitical tension between Alexandria and Lindblum, the main powered nations of the entire continent. In 1794, after the demise of her husband, Brahne Raza Alexandros XVI become Alexandria's main ruler. Brahne regularly sends her emissaries to Lindblum to demand the secret behind the convertion of mist into energy to Lindblum's Regent, Cid Fabool IX. Despite Brahne's negative behavior, the Regent of Lindblum refuses to accept her requests at any cost. While many people were occupied in search of riches, a few were worried, about the leaders attitudes and the socioeconomic differences between the people, plus Lindblum's monopoly on mist-powered engines would result into another inceaselessy war against the nations, but in a large scale, like never seem before._

_Yet, Alexandria and Lindblum nations still remained into a endless threat. However, beyond the heavy and mysterious sea of Mist, another nation remains forgotten by many and obscured like it's own history..._


	2. A Place To Call Home

[A Place To Call Home](https://youtu.be/iBGgUtd7EdA)

(The Place I'll Return Someday)

_Time..._

_It passes unconcerned as people live_

_Dreaming of Mercy_

_In a world of Anxiety,_

_Uncertainty and Sorrow_

* * *

_At times_

_All their hands were clasped in friendship_

_At times_

_With their lifted arms_

_All their colors bled into one_

* * *

_In a world of thick Mist_

_Those men who truly die_

_From a war that must be won_

_Are nowhere to be seen_

* * *

_In a world of blank books_

_The sons of silent age were born_

_Crying for Mercy_

_In their Mother's arm_

* * *

_Within Time_

_They will soon learn_

_How to live_

_With pale shelter_

_Within Time_

_They will soon understand_

_How to deal_

_With the empty stares_

* * *

_Because they already knew_

_From the start of the first page_

_Father won't be home_

_Father ain't the same_

_Until the end of the last paragraph_

* * *

_Those were the days_

_Lived by the infant_

_Those were the times_

_They were also seeking something_

* * *

_Inside their thoughts kept from everyone_

_To relief such heartache_

_To seek all the answers_

_To believe in themselves_

_A goal, a dream to be materialized_

_In a shape of a_ Dragon _..._

* * *

月の三日月の下で

Under The Crescent Moon

Book One: 

Power, Corruption & Lies

A character study

by Janet K. Wallace


	3. Snowflakes Are Dancing

[Snowflakes Are Dancing](https://youtu.be/hWlSenLsXCI)

_Snowflakes are dancing_

_They are dancing_

_They dance, dance_

_And can only dance_

* * *

_Snowflakes are falling_

_Falling on a synchronized row_

_Atop the old sycamore_

_They fall, fall_

_And will always fall_

* * *

_Snowflakes moves gently_

_Like a mature dandelion's seeds kisses a yoshino blossom_

_But when the harsh Winter approaches_

_They started to move sturdily_

* * *

_When Winter came earlier this morning_

_The seeds of kudzu had sprouted upon us_

_And their arrows hurted_

_Like a knife on our backs_

Ai.

* * *

_When Spring came on afternoon_

_All that remained after the snowflakes fall_

_Were a land of newborn hyacints_

_And the worlds of despair written on their minds:_

Ai. Ai.


	4. When Tigers Broke Free

[♫Pink Floyd - When The Tigers Broke Free♫](https://youtu.be/l9b9UhFe6Eg)

* * *

**June 25th, 1778**

...

Today is a day of farewells and departures.

It's a dirty day for those who live in Burmecia, Land of Eternal Rain.

A day to say goodbye without sheding tears from distance. A day where even the most miserable of the men will soon be buried in flakes of gold. A scoundrel day, for those afraid to leave their families at their own; A proud day, for those willing to die for their families. It's a day to wave goodbye for those we must protect. A day to wear our uniforms and march to an outlying path – a devious one – towards future.

This pale atmosphere, this fear we're carrying within us... It's only natural for us, rats. This shivering, suddenly colder feeling, travelling throught my gray skin, like a trunk who has hit by the lightning on a rainy night. This kind of emotion is familiar for me, and for us. I felt the same on the day father left to the fields. — I'll be back – he said. That was a promise kept for me, mother and all my siblings.

But he never came back.

_— '_ Like autumn leaves beneath the ground _'_ – I still remember those euphemistic words they said when I was a kid, standing at the front door, behind mom's legs. By they, I mean father's best friends – soldiers from the same partition as father –, who, at least, had survived. They both shared arms and legs covered by white bandages. One of them still had a wound open in his left arm, and I saw his bandage leak out a reddish substance. It was truly horrid the way his wound opened before us. Fortunately, he took control of it with a piece of cloth from his pocket. I felt sorry for him, because I noticed that peculiar piece of cloth had the same reddish color before he cleaned his wound. To deal with such unpleasant thing as an open wound like a daily habit for the entire life... This kind of thought sent chills throught my body.

I wanted to get away from there and go play somewhere else outside home, with my siblings or with the friends from the nearest neighboors, but something inside me wanted to know what happened to father. They continued, saying he fought bravely against our fiend – 'Alexandria' – before he 'flew throught the horizon sky'. For a month, I couldn't even look at the empty sky, thinking about my father. I blamed _this_ Alexandria for taking father away from me before he could fullfill his promise of coming back, but I was proud he died for our homeland.

Thus, I realized that promises were such fragile things, like glass. And that we are ephemeral beings, like an animal called Youth, that resides within us. As a locust who rejects his older shell in a process of reaching maturity, I left behind my younger self – his way of living, his perspectives, his flesh – in order to grew up. From a new way of living, adulthood was born; from new perspectives, new beliefs were born; and from a new flesh, Love was born.

We must terminate all alexandrian presence over this region. Even althought Lindblum intervened last time, this must be done. The Regent can't meddle this time, because a civil war can only be resolved by the parts in conflict. In other words, the fate of the people we care about – the same people Father cared about – is hang on by a threat of centuries. It doesn't matter if we are right or if we are wrong. Before the red rain comes, there are dead to respect, and respect to be born.

Now I, Bartholomew, son of Major Brandford, must wave, without sheding a single tear, and say... Goodbye. Farewell to my dear friends, Josef, Paul, Charles, Wendy, Lisa; farewell to my siblings – except my older brother Clyde, who's in my accompany – and farewell to my family – my dear wife, Lenneth, descendant of the Crescent clan and former Dragon Knight, and our only 5 year-old son, Jack.

May our god, Bahamut, bless their souls... before I flew throught the horizon sky.

...


	5. Jeux Sans Frontières

**June 24th, 1778**

...

_Here today. Gone tomorrow._

_50 rookies, 35 men from reserve – counting me – and 15 veterans, members of the high command, being only one a member of the Royal family. His name, Gabriel. The youngest brother of our current monarch, the one who called upon this thread of our lives, Edgar._

_In total: 100 men, who both share the same goal._

_To intercept suspectful activity related to Alexandria and return home at once._

_Alive._

...

* * *

[♫Peter Gabriel - Games Without Frontiers♫](https://youtu.be/LKb9XQ39-zc)

* * *

**June 25th, 1778**

...

Gray morning. Plenty progressive movement throught the plain landscapes. An entire day whose legs of mine screamed, twiched as my stomach. Those soaked crumbles that rests in my pocket were once tasty crackers, and now I'm starving enough to eat them. Blue afternoon. This heartache occupies the whole of my head as the haze, this same haze from before I was born, fill in the air that I breathe. Dim evening. A star is reluctantly shining at the empty sky. Like a rotten corpse hanging out from it's locked grave, my skin can't feel nor heat, nor cold. Both grief eyes of mine aren't enough to suffice my descriptions of the pain scattered across my body.

But my pain is my pain. Only mine, and nobody else. Like ants from a colony, no one cares if one, either worker or soldier, is about to be crushed by a rock ten times heavier than her body supports. Only if the queen dies, the colony as a whole die likewise its prior government. But we aren't ants, _anymore._ With metamorphosis, changes came for us, bipedal ones. Our lifes matter as much as the one that belongs to the King, his family, and this reunified nation we're living to die for. Unlikely ants, we see with our eyes what they're doing or about to do from their palaces. We see their power, their corruption and their lies spread like seductive flowers. We are now their basis, their floor, the support from their building, and if we're about to collapse the entire structure, we'll take them with us.

This is why we need a strong leader. Like a legendary Leviathan, endowed with dominance over its seas, of brobdingnagian lenghts, to stood below Bahamut's azure, and his people at the middle, living upon the surface of a sea of uncertainties. A leader whose attitude guides his people to whenever the way his trail leads. He is the one to decide whether his silkworms are to be given in to a boiling cauldron, or to be born into moths. A leader to maintain security of centuries, to keep our inner thrusts of killing each other locked into ourselves, and a consequent condemnation to be delivered if such another life is violated from its right to live, by his law and the law above all things, the law of god. A leader whose first napkin given, either left or right, had already dicted him as a ruler.

But I know only fools set the rules over this squall world. It's all but a flying dream who doesn't known where to go or where to stop. A child, who doesn't stop asking 'why?' over anything they see. Instead, it just keeps flying, fueled by our urge of pretty imagination over this stark reality. Our wishes are nothing but sawdust floating over the water stream. A small residual of our mind, that you know which way it'll always lead. Dreams are better, in such a lonely way.

From my reverie, the image of an ideal leader succumbes and vanishes, slowly fading away from my vision as soons as wer're attacked by our enemies. Something told me to awaken in this evening. This atmosphere inhaled by my lungs; this silence louder than my words; a chosen time is to be declared, by the small cuts of a sharp blade. Whenever we fear our time slowly pass by, a strong leader, to rule us, to claim our footsteps. There's no way to guarantee my safety for what'll come next. The condition so far, for the beast awaken within us; to overcome our flesh, a crime to be committen, the damage taken, comtemplated, discharged to where it once belonged. As a wave whose crest intensifies within seconds, we engulfed an entirety of a shoreline.

The last view those tepid Vices had of their miserable excuse of life were the tips of our sharp javelins piercing throught their non-human vessels. Clyde threw his javelin over one's head, the same who had stolen his backpack full of medicine. It barely crossed the skull, but death came quick for that fool. He got what such insignificant thief speciments, depraved of moral, deserved. As the odour emanating from their green flesh had been stuck on our javelins, the remaining ones ran away, on their frightful chicken legs. We laughed at their excuse of living a life of robbery.

After the flood, the sky changed to pitch black like tar. I... don't know what happened to me. I'm not this kind of person. This waste, this fever, this hatred, this starving, this lapse of reasoning... Something must have been took away from me the moment I stood out of the rain. A devilish snake, whose poisonous bite were given to the men; like the plague, that resides within such a small, itchy flea. A hookworm inside our guts, whose bread is the lack of what had been vanished from your body, nay, an addicted coin, with both Heads and Tails, who always fall Heads than Tails; We are playing a game where the evil, perverse, chaotic subdues the good, reasonable, ordered side of our consciousness.

Or maybe it was the weather. The smell of death dissipated by mist slightly vanished as soon as it started to rain. It poured upon our skin, as soft as a rain from a distant april. If that was a bless from our god to protect us, then I believe our people's prayers must've been realized this time. Surely, Lenneth is at home, tired of her routine as a Dragoon, but still able to stand on her feet. She's now preparing dinner for our son, Jack, as both are sharing an eye after noticing one's chair is empty. I hope they're alright as much as I am, for mine and their sake.

_I'm so tired. There is no end to this._

_I must relax now. I can't turn away... A life in a trance._

...


	6. Perfect Circle

[♫R.E.M. - Perfect Circle♫](https://youtu.be/D2kERWhaQ8c)

* * *

**June 25th, 1778**

...

_Combien de temps..._

It's been a day that felt like a week since they left us. Beneath the sea of mist, deep within the clouds of Bahamut, on the land of invisible sun, rain falls down and I feel cold. Cold as this shivering skin; like the tears when I said goodbye, I feel the weight of my world in my shoulders high, collapsing on a landslide. The amethyst in my eyes never shone like before since that day, alike a withered bloom dried away. To think I, daughter of Crescent, were once an outstanding member of the Dragoon Knights. But now I've been disbanded from them, because of my current condition. It's the weather, they said. From June to July, like my hair, frail as the autumn leaves; pale, as winter snowflakes in the ground.

I felt unsafe at first, like a clam without a shell. A vagrant child, who had lost its own name and adress. At least, It's good to spend some time at home. My routine has changed since them. To reorganize the furnitures, to learn some masonry, to fix the front door, polish the windows, clean the fireplace, to prune the tree branches... I actually do the same things my husband had done before, but on my own. Even my wardrobe changed. From that unique crimson uniform to this lime housewife costume; the white cravat that used to be below my chin dissapeared, exposing my naked neck; my once freed hair is now wrapped into a ponytail, that reminded me of those days I weared green.

I walk upstairs. For some reason, those steps seems to take a lifetime. Maybe I'm too careful and I got a bit of onus since I grew up. When I was a kid, I used to ran over the spiral staircase at my house. It was a fun entertainment – besides playing with dolls made of cloth, or taking care of one little brother of mine, it's the same thing – until _this_ arm broke. And by _this_ , I mean I'm left-handed. I broke the right arm before mom taught me how to write, so I got used to this devil arm. And the curse has already spreaded. People of neighborhood, friends of mine, brothers of same blood, stared at me, that child of the left arm. Now, imagine a left-handed Dragoon Knight novice, female as well, living on a place where a few woman are able to withstand the almightly society of few good men, training with a standard javelin meant to be used by your right arm. Tough, isn't it? I did my best, to train using my right arm instead of the left one, and to prove the women of Crescent clan are able to achieve new positions. But it didn't suffice. It wasn't enough for changes to happen. Until a passing stranger gave his best to made one javelin, specially to be used by left-handed people like me. And this stranger is now my husband. This arm may be broke again, and my prudence says that I do not want it.

There's a grandfather's clock near me. The pendulum swings from left to right, right to left. A pattern, to be followed. The days I walked across the staircase – in spite of a related incident of mine – I used to watch the pendulum of the clock, almost the same as this. To lay down on the carpet, watching the seconds, minutes, even hours, pass. To stand in there, awaiting for the day until I grew up. Now, as I watch these painful hours slowly pass by, my body tries to cry. Tears aren't enough to describe this awe, those expectations of leading an uncertain future, without him. To live throught every ounce of desperation in these days, a single heartbeat of mine is enough to drive me mad.

Now I feel tired. The energy I once had when little vanished from this big body. Should I got to my bedroom and take a nap yet? Maybe not. It's still afternoon. When I'm tired, I used to smack some coca leaves to calm my nerves and keep me awake. Instead, today I go outside, to smell the sweet fennels growing on a corner. When my nose finally gets queasy – which doesn't take long to happen – I check if my _kailyaird_ has the ingredients to prepare some _chai_. There is an only ginger growing in there. Besides that, I cultivate some lettuce, cabbages, carrots, onions, shallots, cherry tomatoes and worms. There's also some _enokitake_ growing on that tree's trunk, and maybe I could find some truffle for a later dessert, but today I'll prepared a soup for Jack, like it or not.

I brought that only ginger along with me. That is enough for a cup. At the kitchen, I found a cinamon roll and some dry carnations inside the cabinet where our set for breakfast meal – cereals of oats and rye, and a piece of wheat bread – and lunch meal – pounds of lizard tails preserved in salt – lies together, although they are different sets of food. Like my personal garden, but nothing there's alive. This milk inside the brass container is about to expire in a week, but it's already in shortage, anyway. Now what is left for the last ingredient – and essential one: Black tea. After a couple of minutes in preparation, the national drink of Burmecia is ready to be served. When I taste it, my throat slightly burns, but it feels so nice. The taste is the perfect balance between spicy and sweet. A touch of cinamon and carnation never failed to impress my tongue.

I'm lost for words, but I just keep talking to myself. My husband ain't here to appreciate and share of this same silence. His lips may be dry of words, but, like a quiet street washed by the rain, his inner thoughts flow as a river, onto disparate slopes he never known which way they'll lead into. Bart's livid as a scarecrow when he spends time thinking and reflecting. It's the only thing that allows him to travel from this world to another; After all, if he can't change this world, then he might think about one that changes with a train of thought. A dreamworld, within his mind. He could instead hibernate throught an entire season if he wanted, but there's no time for relax when you're a man wearing an uniform. We are like two distant poles apart – Me, a Dragoon, who used to fly atop this cities; and Bart, a reserve soldier, now crossing the plains –, yet, we share of the same something in common. This something... Is to guarantee the safety of the new Burmecians. ''Javelins'' do not kill people. ''People'' do kill people. My daddy said something akin to that once, and I still remember those wise words. As my ancestors, A Dragoon's task is to protect the kingdom of Burmecia and its people. That's why I believe those who have been forgotten had a fate worse than death itself. I'll never forget you, my parents, my siblings, the people that helped me become who I am.

From the window, I saw my son, Jack, playing with his friends. 10 silhouettes and Jack, from a distance, at the fields. They all wear verdant green, like an infantry of little soldiers. I see them kicking a ball figure from left to right, later into all directions, like pieces from a board game. It's their current diversion, as it seems. Of all the things I've done, to spend more time with Jack was the best, certainly. The last time I did it so was when he was born. Mine and Bart's doubts turned into certainty on that stormy night. I stood in bed, my lower members numb of the pain I felt. A worth pain, of course. It lasted one month or less, until I could get up and get back to my duty as a Dragoon. Only sometimes I had the moment to take care of Jack, because of my job, unlike his father, who always seemed to be there to take care of him when I wasn't. The joy he had when that little fragile arm wrapped around his finger for the first time was the same flowing throught his tears. When he wasn't either, my sister would be there to take care of my son.

Like this cup of _chai_ , our relationship is kinda of a bittersweet one. Sometimes savoury; other times pleasant. He's sometimes another quiet boy, sharing of the same fertile imagination as father, but sometimes he's a mischievous troublemaker, an angel with the wings of the devil. But Jack's just a kid, not an adult. Only kids can comprehend kids, and only adults comprehend adults. This is what I call by perfect circle. One day, you spent your life buried in the sand, but when you get older, you try to walk throught a path of thin ice, afraid to fall under the lake. As a kid, he sees me as another friend of his, like an aunt, at the point he mentions me by ''Lennie'' instead of ''mom''. It's not his fault. It's mine, for not seeing him grow as a boy for a long time. But still he knew I'm his mom. From the door, I hear timid _knock-knocks._ When I open the door, there's a child in the outside, covered by mud. It's Jack. I know it, because of its familiar, yet unfathomed reminiscense. A mother knowns who's her son, from a distance, or from a centimeter.

— Hi Lennie, he said.

— Get in, I said. I looked down at him. Almost 18 hours, and still he hadn't come home. But now he was there.

He's unreconizable without that single piece of orange cloth wrapped at the point of its stirring tail. Since the birth rate tax has increased in years, each adult became afraid that their sons might get lost. Kids these days looks all the same, so they came up with this: To wrap a piece of orange cloth around the newborn's tail, like a tie, and write the initials of his name, like 'Cr' for 'Crescent'. That boy had a 'Cr' on its tail, so it surely was Jack. We inherited this habit from one of our ascendants. The people of Bulu, a long lost civilization of wanderers who estabilished their civilization across the hills, to avoid the mist. This was long before our ancestors migrated to these wet plains, where the rain kept us safe. So, whenenver a child were born, it was part of their custom to tie an orange noose on the newborn's tail. The tie symbolizes union and affection, while the orange colour had a unique meaning for each age. On infants, the orange meaned the vitality of a new being; during the youth, it is associated to the pulsating of primary instincts; on adulthood, the fidelity of a couple and at the senescence, the renouncement of life pleasures. They also adopted as a sacred item the bell, which symbolizes the ear and everything that's perceived by it. Bells are said to terrify evil spirits and beings by their sound as well. That's why each house of Burmecia has at least one internal vault in a shape of a bell. Even the habit of drinking _chai_ on afternoon was inherited from them.

Like a baby in my arms, I carried Jack upstairs, because his smudge feet were dirtying the carpet. I filled a large bucket with water and prepared a bath for Jack. He smelled as rotten as a carrion, that not even the most hungered of the vultures would try to eat it. Yuck! I even felt dazzled for a while, carefully washing all his parts with a luffa, while he fought reluctantly, like a drowning man. The waves dissipated and splash! He caught me off guard, twice in a row. I still had dominance over him. After some arduous work, Jack ceased and finally get clean. The cleanest he ever been. His laurel hair, flowing down like a waterfall; that gray flur smooth like moss, and both his eyes, green like jade gemstones. To be fair, he's a handsome boy, like father.

Finished, I curled Jack on a towel and took him out of the bucket and went to his wardrobe. Later, I prepared the dinner at evening. The friction of the crickets legs vanishes as we hear the croaking of frogs from the marsh outside, a symphony alike our stomachs. A recipe of my mom, a soup flavored by vegetables and worms was prepared. Jack only ate the worms and refused to eat anything else beside. But when I looked down on him, he ate everything. A little bit of _force majeure_ never hurt anyone. Funny, at that moment, Jack did the same as me, when I first ate this soup mom prepared. I was put to rest on bed, my right arm still injured, and I was learning to use my left arm instead. It was easier to suck those vermins with my mouth than eat a piece of cabbage floating in a liquid surface of hot water. I refused to eat, given my condition, and later, I saw an arm being raised until a fierce and rough slap is delivered on my cheek, and another injury to be carried. That's what father would do to convince me to eat. But mom were so kind, and raised a spoon into my mouth. Like a breast given to a newborn, she took care of me and my siblings until the day she died. Again, I'll never forget her.

After we finished dinner, I washed the dishes. To think only two dishes were washed this night, and for once one is mine. For an instant, I slighty turned back. Jack was still sitting there, looking at the empty chair his father used to sit to. He had no expression, just an empty stare on his face.

— Jack? I asked. He was tired. His eyesight were as bad as a mole.

— Yes...? He answered. Only a word came from his mouth, before he went yawning.

— Isn't already late? You know, time to sleep. I briefly looked at the outside from the window. The clouds were dark, and the sound of raindrops on the roof slightly increased. The delicate sound of thunder and lightning could be heard across a mile away.

— Uh... O... O-Okay...

Our conversation didn't last too long. Jack left the table, without saying a single goodnight for me. Poor little thing. He seemed alright from outside, just another reckless nasty kid as usual. But I knew that, from inside, he was entirely riven, torn apart like a mistreated ragdoll. His heart was a stricken one, more than the ones belonging to anyone else, including me. His father were always there when he needed, unlike his mom, training over influence of her ancestor lineage, instead of taking care of her own offspring. Leastwise, I shared of his feelings. Like a bond, instinctively estabilished between mother and child, I feel what my son felt, but I don't think it's enough for the seeds of trust to grow up yet.

I light a candle, to walk across the shadows of these enlarged objects at the living room. Then I went upstairs, to Jack's room. He's already sleeping, and so I'm about to do the same, so I went to my bedroom. As soon as I layed on this bed, I blew this slowly burning candle resting on the nightstand, and this entire room went into the current state of my soul. Everything faded into black, and only darkness remained, like a deadly calm. I had no idea if my eyes were close or not. I felt briefly like a violet, growing up in the darkest of the corners.

This bed is so big without him. I know Bart won't come back soon. There is no place to run until the fighting's done. Until this bloodshed stops, to pray for your safety... It's all that we can do to put our faith in you.

...


	7. Sunday Morning

**June 25th, 1778**

...

At least, we settled a temporary camp. Our tents were already prepared and distributed by the rookies, who had been carrying them around since we left Burmecia by daylight. I'm currently inside one of them, writing another page. If it's for a diary, a travelogue, whatever; it's only me and my thoughts, for now.

I'm so distant from home. A miles away from my family, and there's no window, no furnitures, nothing that resembles home, except me. Grass and land are on the place of whenever there was a wooden floor, or its carpet. Only two organic beds, slim as the tip of a kingpin. Almost medieval, but leastwise, they're comfortable. Pieces of cotton, straw and wool were gathered inside. Way better than sleep on a soaked and muddy floor. All that I felt, for now, is tranquility, even if it lasts this only night, laying on this bed later.

A miles away, my body says, but my memories says otherwise. When I look at Clyde... Well, Clyde's one of my siblings. The eldest one, the one who came to this world first than me, he learned what is to be responsible first. Clyde is such an optimistic person, always near the future ahead. Shaken under the bed, after father died that day, Clyde were the one who stood stand beside and comforted my thoughts on those dark times. — If someone is about to faint, a phoenix down is enough. If it isn't, then there's no hope. Like, you can't ressurect the dead if his soul had already left the body. That's just the way it is – Those where his words once said to me.

When Clyde were once a kid, he wished to be like a Dragoon Knight, so he could defend people as defenseless as he once was. Instead, At 16, he enlisted on army. A reserve soldier, like me, only called to his post whenever there's a disturbance. When he's at reserve, he works as a baker. He later married a woman, called Cynthia. Clyde said to me he found a way to conquer her using his culinary skills. I don't think so, but I know Love sure's a mysterious thing. Who ever thought I felt in to a left-handed? Not that I care about it. Whichever hand she's fine to use, Lenneth is still my darling wife.

But I'm not here to think about Lenneth – maybe later –, because this time is dedicated to Clyde. To summarize... At first glance, he's such a formidable person that is there to help whenever who you are. Now that I know him... I'd say he changed a lot. From the Devil to a Saint, Clyde can't hide from me, his brother, the past. Nor I can't do the same, either.

* * *

[♫The Velvet Underground - Sunday Morning♫](https://youtu.be/3qK82JvRY5s)

* * *

Clyde, Clyde...

Damn you.

To fill in the gaps of our conversation, he talks bullshit. Like a writer, whose work is based on improvised subjects with enough blabbering so his text is rich in argument, but in fact, it isn't. I would say Clyde is the Lord Avon of this specific topic. His meaningless words are often rich in absolutely nothing relevant – at least, for me. From his tongue-in-cheek flavored low-down shorts to chronicles to his childhood, featuring me and our siblings as deuteragonist figures hidden under his back, felt like they belonged to an epic poem than from an ordinary's mouth. Heck, he even asked me about the day our father beaten him as a punishiment for something we did in the past.

I still remember it, somehow. A fainted memory, not clearly as water, but still a visible thing to see. Once there was a willow tree nearby my house. Me and Clyde, we climbed and we showed our turkeys at the people walking nearby by. In other words, we _pissed_ on them. In the ear, the nose, the head... We laughed for a while, in silence, until the fun ended, eaxctly when a soldier's mouth got caught by the warm waves of regret. And I can only blame Clyde for his stupidity. Nature called me by surprise on that day, and that stupid idea was his. At least, that's what I said. And father heard me. And Clyde suffered instead. After that day, even a bit injured, he was fine that he took the place of blame for me, because he was my elder brother, and he also described the pain he felt as something I couldn't even describe.

From this dark evening to an unpleasant morning in the past... Those were dark times like these, but I was just a kid to understand it. It's a thing only boys, like us, could (and not) comprehend. We were reckless young rat kids back in that day, and we had nothing else to do except obey what our parents said – phrases often ending with 'this' word, like 'eat this', 'wear this', 'clean this', anyway – or go play outside. Boys jumping rope on a wet pavement, waiting until someone slips and falls; little girls, like my little sister Theresa, singing nursery rhymes, and whenever they forget some lyrics, they sang that annoying _'lalalalalala'_ instead; our other siblings, like Martin and their friends, hunting and killing wild Basilisks with pointy stones as ammunition for their slingshots; and us, atop the willow tree, to shout rude names and spit on people without noticing and watch anything else than the clouds gray as we.

Clyde would often call his other friends as well to stand on that tree. Or behind the brick fence of a neighboor friend of his, where we – boys only – reunited once in a week to decide whose pecker was bigger. I never won any points, to be honest. At least, a lot of male friends I made throught this life were my competitors. Like Josef, the barman; Charles, the architeth who later constructed mine and Lenneth's house at the countryside of the kingdom; and Paul, who became a friend of ours on an unexpected way. He said once to us his pecker were as big as one of his father's cigars.

We laughed at him. Of course that mice was a pretty liar, but he had a look of plenty confidence over something before he ran away. Minutes later, Paul brought to us a pack of cigars from his father. Did he asked his father's permission to carry that seemed rather odd, given that before he showed us the cigars, they were hidden under that boy's cap. I knew, in fact, that he stole it from his father. Besides being a liar – about his small whip –, Paul was a thief, but that didn't matter. Those cigars were no cheap things. That boy later told us his father were a merchant, and the tobacco he went carrying to us were imported from the plateaus belonging to Alexandria itself.

While Clyde and some of his friends climbed up that tree, the weeping willow, to try out a legitimate Alexandrian cigar – I don't smoke, and I refuse to do it since that day –, one were to stand next to the trunk and send a signal if whenever an adult, parent, were next. Me, as a task, was to find a way to ignite the cigar. I brought a candle I found in kitchen to the outside, carefully avoiding the rain or any relatives of taking away the I climbed that tree, Clyde burnt one of those cigars in his mouth. Smoke blew from his throath, accompanied by the melody of our coughs. Cough, cough. Then, after some friends refused to try – like me – and disbanded to their houses, Clyde stood upon that tree, to look at the clouds he manufactured with his breath.

I despise cigar, yet Clyde has a taste for such a nasty thing. He at least ain't addicted to smoking, thank god, but often I see he and a pipe, next to each other's heart. As it seems, siblings aren't exactly the same person. They only got the skin as something in common. Beneath the skin, lying within the flesh, there it is your soul. Your experiences, your character... Clyde's strokes aren't my strokes. Even if my path is a divergent one than his, I feel fine, because it's part of us. Althought, the same path of blood left by father remains the same within me, Clyde... and Jack.

...


	8. ABC Auto-Industry

[ABC Auto-Industry](https://youtu.be/fiYgNf9cHnw)

_Beneath the steam sky_

_The smell of coal gas_

_And oil burned on streets_

_Birds of feather_

_Boats of the blue_

_Under the sea, above the mist_

_Crossing the lost weather_

_Of daylight stood at lull_

* * *

_Born from the hands of concrete_

_Around the districts of a nonstop city_

_Brick by brick_

_Stone by stone_

_Until they're numb_

_The hands of the crowd_

_Work at the Metropolis_

_Hearts of steel_

_Pumping like the engines_

_Of railroads colliding_

_From station to station_

_Metal howling under metal_

_The sound of a heartbeat_

_Is nothing alike a mistreat_

_From master to servant_

* * *

_Visions of ghosts_

_Outside the factories_

_Trying to find happiness in red_

_Tired of expecting some reward_

_In sight of no hope_

_All comes into a rope_

_Because nothing's perfect_

_In this moving world_

* * *

_The days before arriving at the chamber_

_To enter the neighbor lands_

_Along with her parents_

_The world as it was a_ _lready changed_

_Even before the revolution_

_Little Alice used to wander anywhere_

_Pouring down like the rain_

_Until she felt guilty_

_Like an orphan in pain_

_The straight looks coming from everywhere_

_All day along to be exposed_

_A child, like that_

_Born inside a body seem as filthy_

_As her face of rat_

_Eyes with the sight of pollution_

_A garbage to be disposed_

* * *

_Skin tore apart_

_Heaven found in her mother's arms_

_In the depths of the eyes_

_Tears had run dry_

_Like words of sand, melted into glass_

_To see the world outside_

* * *

_Her father led an entangled life_

_Like a brave soldier, he gave his body to the grave_ , _she said_

_The pulse from the arm whose feeded her_ _faded_

_A whole life ahead,_ _burnt by the unforgettable fire_

_Everyone is a thief_

_In this criminal world_

_Even god, in a little while_

* * *

_Alice grew up as a woman_

_And felt in love with everything_

_Listening to the melody of a comet_

_Crossing the skies_

_Underneath the pale moon_

_From the view of a telescope_

_A romance arises_

_Ephemeral as a star_

_Magnetic poles apart_

_Gravity acted in silence_

_For the one whose arms of lenience_

_Took her soul inside the width of a room_

* * *

_It was a question of time_

_For her finger sink_

_Within the_ _surface of the sea_

_For her legs walk_

_On the air she once breath_

_Days later, poured down the rain_

_Falling from the gray sky_

_Every shiver colder_

_As her body grew older_

_Another tear of pain_

_Felt from her mother's eye_


	9. The Army Now

[♫Art Of Noise - The Army Now♫](https://youtu.be/b5wAbaoSuoo)

* * *

...

Talk about dehumanization. Such a big word, isn't it?

It was all a vision coming from mile away from us. It seemed unreachable, like two islands apart. They're all seem as heroes, prized as ones with medals, but they aren't. We are the ones about to die and what they do is to step over our corpses after our battle is over. 'Today they stand under luxuries, but maybe tomorrow we'll both share the same ground'; that's what my brother says.

'Drooling over a Moogle's leg, ain't you?' It was just a silly joke, I know. To talk about that friendly sympathetic creature of this manner... Bart said nothing, but the look on his skinny face clearly said a nice 'shut up' loud and clear, a thing his mouth didn't. Bart, Bart... _Comme à tout_ , the things he do, sometimes, he's such in a cool. Quiet like the thunder, always willing to avoid some blunder; when comes to luck, all he needs is a bit of pluck. He has no sense of humour for this things. In fact, he's another rookie. He pretends to be that intelligent being, but he's too quiet, and always had before daddy died, he has been plenty of this quiet attitude. Maybe he didn't even cried when he was born, but instead he only breathed and learned to do it so. Heck, even his first word said was 'oglop'. Just like his son, my nephew, who had born shake from the same disease. Jack's almost the same as father, and his father is almost the same as ours. To think Lenneth is also within that child, even thought she kind of abandoned him. At least, Bart was there with Jack times away before we went to the fields. I wish the best for that child, and Lenneth as well, to resist throught such dark times for all Burmecia.

From a distant glare, I see the high command. Veteran units under glowing lights illuminated their small settlement, tents and clothes made of better resistant material than ours. Leather has the tendency to get flaccid wherever it rains, unlike copper or brass, and comparing our shelter halves with those pyramids of them is the same to compare a dog house with a royal palace. Outside the tents, Chocobos kept aligned with ropes on their feets and images of a parade of euphoria and surplus instantly caught my eyes. _Yesch, Yesch..._

General Sigurd is about to pronounce something for our Highness, brother of the king of Burmecia, Gabriel, of the Kain bloodline. Suspicions of mine aside, if this wasn't the 18th century his brother... He had been already dead. Born in a gold cradle, servants to clean his butt... _Aurea mediocritas,_ I assure you. He even brought Sigurd, his 'uncle' – a nice way to say 'servant', which's a pleasant denomination for 'slave', which means 'us' as well, in other words, 'shit' –, and he's about to pronounce something futile, of no importance whatsoever, in the name of our highness.

We do everything for our highness, even kill ourselves. Daddy died to protect Burmecia, but in the name of who? The king firstly, of course. Not that he didn't died for other things, such as mom, my siblings, and me, but the king is the prime jewel to be secured, a gold nugget in the middle of bauxite. You think: If I protect the King, then the king will protect us. In practice, yes. In Bart's mind, as well. You thought this for way too long, in the wrong way. Only fools set the rules over this miserable world of ours, can't you see? Even Bart agrees with me to this point. Poisoning, assasination, corruption, insomnia, paranoia, _paranoimia_... For centuries, Kings do control whatever they want. Our food, our taxes, our lives... They even control the fate of people. A brother kills a brother, a father kills a brother, another brother kills the father, the son kills the parents... And so, the story goes on. This old principle of guaranting us of not killing each other is just a facade so they can do whatever they want under the titles of 'Noble', 'Leader', 'Regent', 'Prince', 'Emperor' and 'King'. We are just canned food, flesh in armour, awaiting to be feeded for the Alexandrian Bandersnatchers.

Even our current king, the noble Edgar, is about to assasinate his own brother, the next in sucession, without touching him with his own hands. A perfect plan to sustain his reign for long, since he has been diagnosed with the gout, been kept under treatment, resting on his bed. Or so do boats from my neighbors say. Poor Gabriel. Even knowing he's about to die tomorrow of after – or lose a leg in battle, or by amputation, if he's lucky –, he thinks those people around him are his friends, trustyworthy as childhood friends, but they are there to ask something for him. In fact, he had no friends when he was a kid. Only Sigurd, since his father left to fight in the fields, and his mother passed away after she gave birth to him. His brothers didn't cared about him, either. It's funny how many things you could learn from daddy, am I right? He was also a friend of little Gabriel, not a friend as 'Sigurd', but sometimes he was there, and other times, he fought alongside Gabriel's father.

Daddy, unlikely those people, never asked something for his King, only one thing: that he could protect Burmecia and its people. And so he did his duty and now rests in peace, unlike us. I have a good sight, unlike commander Komakino, who's blind like a knife. Look at him, that rickety crook... speaking with that dead socioelect of his, with that morbid face of an undead raised from the ashes, pale like his skin and hair. For me, he has been dead since them. Heck, he can't even lift a spear with one hand, can't he? He may be asking for some new dentures, so he can eat the Zaghnol meat below him. Yes, the feast... Like a wedding feast, the sound of bells rang into my ears. Komakino's jaw felt from his muzzle under piles of lizard tails greased into reddish cherry syrup; Marbles of salt being caressed by Sigurd's long tongue, engulfed with barley; Garlands of cabbages eaten by our highness for later ammunition; All benefits – and more – for those members of the high command and the King's brother intimates.

That's the army, then and now. _Alrightch..._

...


	10. The Path Of Least Resistance

_...Long before Lindblum intervened..._

_...With the 'revolution', to bring that war a 'resolution'..._

_...I still remember..._

_...That boy..._

_...Yes... an alexandrian boy..._

_He only had five years._

_A five year-old boy... who saw his own parents caught up in a fire..._

_...Dissappear into a riot..._

_I can still... throught my ears... hear their screaming..._

_...Was I... responsible... for it?..._

_...Or was it..._

... **The 'Drive'?**...

* * *

[♫The Human League - The Path Of Least Resistance♫](https://youtu.be/JnTmi_JdKNc)

* * *

...

I'm so hungry. Skin and bones. An animal after being sent to the local butcher. I feel like a peasant, the poorest one, belonging to the darkest corner of the dirtiest streets of a city without a soul. I'm referring to the Kingdom of Eternal Dim, Treno. There, you're either poor, miserable and skinny, threw away into the slums; or you're a noble, rich and fat, living down in a mansion near the fountain. Treno also hosts The Auction House, which works as The Capitol, the neutral spot of negotiations between the nations. Father would often make an appearance there, while Mother stood with us, cooking lizard tails. Alike an island in the middle of a sea in flames, they discuss either who is right, who is wrong; or force the nations to assign a cease fire.

'Unlike Peace, all cease fire agreements expires someday'; Father once said something like this. I'm so hungry.

About when Clyde finished his art of preparing the flame, rain poured down with a significantly higher chance of ruining our dinner. Me and Clyde, like the others, stood under our tents. Before the rain could put out the fire, I saw some rookies improvising a covering for the fire. By ripping one of those tent's cloths and supporting it with their own javelins, tips stuck on the soil, wooden handle wrapped by a cord. Kinda like another tent assembled, but exclusively for the fire. We poured our food on our helmets. A not-so-but-enough-clean piece of cloth to cover its openings. Our dinner was the least amount of black beans, to slightly improve the consequent loss of blood, and rice, who has everything we need to keep our bones seemingly hard to break. There was no water nearby us, the only who felt down at us wasn't enough – maybe we could use it later to wash our hands, since there's no cutlery for us –, so we peel some oranges, also brought by the rookies. My gratitude for them once again.

We layed upon our beds, to enjoy of our food, when a soldier came to our tent.

— Hello, he said. Could I share this tent of ours? Mine's got soaked, and I can't stand a soaken pillow.

— Well... Why not?

Me and Clyde briefly looked at each other. We accepted the comrade, not only because he was a fellow burmecian, but you might think it's incorrect to let someone without assistance and accompany at the worse of the situations. Our ancestors always wondered about this kind of attitude we have for the other. To place ourselves in a new perspective, a change of reality, created by the descriptions of pain and sadness spreaded into words... to comfort someone with our heart is something that seems so simple, but it has such a deeper meaning behind. All I know is that I feel more secure accompanied of someone.

And so, we accepted that fellow to come inside our tent. Like a lodger hosted at our tent, we offered him some of our food. He brought his helmet down from his head. As my mouth filled with the unsavory taste of rice and beans covered in spit, I took a look at the boy. It was a rookie, presumably perceived in his appearance. He was calm, and gently. The serenity of his childish eyes, green like two eliptical diopside gems, and that curvy and long flaxen hair, too well maintained even for the most formidable of the men. I don't recall ever seeing such a handsome man before. Only women, like my mother, my sister, and my wife shared of the same beauty. Just one day, that felt like a week, away from home and my mind is getting on of such thoughts. I can't make this own him as a first impression of mine. They say your first impression left is forever, and is difficult to change it. Poor Jack... he still feels marooned by his own mom since he was born. I'm sure Lenneth is doing her best for him.

Now, speaking of that boy. Yes, he seemed to not belong with us, and more likely, he was something parralel of us, like Francis, who once used to be a baker; or maybe James, the fisherman; John, another fisherman; Maison, architet; Vincent, still life painter, Emilio, husbandman and merchant; Jin, metallurgical; Schneider, tailor; Buckley, milkman; Clyde, baker – he used to be a former royal guard before. He kind of neglects it's fact, and I never had the chance to talk with him about it. I once thought there's no difference between a soldier like me and a royal guard Clyde used to be, but I was wrong. Soldiers don't get that much of salt not even in a week –, and finally, me. I don't have that much of a fixed occupation. My hobby is painting and reading. Sometimes, I use to spend the long lost afternoons to sew clothes. Jack's, Lenneth's and mine as well. Let's just say I'm free to do whatever I do, as a job. I work as a freelancer, I guess. I can do anything with those bare hands of mine, unless it's something I might refuse, such as to sell my body. No, I'm not this kind of fool. There are certain limits for what I can do.

I sometimes found myself, and Jack, hunting Basilisks. Those nasty creatures... They are a well-know prague at Burmecia, with such a tendency to petrify the ladies. Literally. People know it as the Phaedra's Curse. Worse than tetanus given by the cut of a rusty knife, or carbuncles inflammating over a neck, the disease is said to turn part of your skin into stone, progressively reaching your nails, your bones, your hair... even your eyes, turned into stone. Truly horrifying; but rumours aside, this disease has it's name because of Queen Phaedra, who has been infected by a Basilisk a long time ago. Legend say that her statue found at the inside of Burmecia's Palace is indeed herself, or so do people believe. People who became statues in a whole like Phaedra are rarely seem these days, since the production of a medicine called Soft, sold for a low price at the markets, has reduced considerably the number of infected. In a fact, the Basilisk only infects you when it's found vulnerable, cornered by his predators or you. They dislike the rain, so dry environments, like houses, are prone to have them. His eggs, with the size of the ones belonging to hummingbirds, are mostly found inside the walls, or in a hole buried in the ground, and unfortunately, they aren't edible. Despite petrifying people, little children can also get poisoned if they ingest one egg or even lick the shell. I remember the taste of one of those eggs. Worse than castor oil, for sure. If I recall, it was Clyde, once again, who saved me. He gave me an antidote who forced me to puke that egg, and so I had to rest in bed for a week.

Thanks, Clyde.

I finished dinner, about when Clyde and the other finished their dinner. I've never felt such a starvation like this one I felt. I even ate the entire orange as a whole, from its bitter syrup to its untasty pulp. A quiet dinner like so quiet I am, the introspect one; my mind is the only way I found so far to express myself... to myself.

— Oh, thanks for the dinner, said the invited soldier. Mind If I... ask your names?

Oh, we forgot to say our names. How silly of us, the anfitrions. I was about to say my name, when that guy looked at Clyde, Not a look, but a fixed stare, as if he already knew him. Maybe because he was once a royal guard, I don't know. Or maybe because he's a baker, like Francis. Everyone needs bread, so imagine seeing my brother's face everytime I need to buy cereals. He's so unreconizable wearing _this_ outfit and _that_ outfit.

— Well... my name is Bart, and this is my brother, Clyde.

— Bart and Clyde... He said, a moment before he stood quiet. The words vanished from his mouth, until his lips exclaimed. — Ah! You must be the sons of Major Brandford... My pleasure. I'm Highwind. Prescott Highwind.

Prescott, he said... Prescott... that name. Son of priest, I see. Now that answers why he doesn't look like a common soldier, after all. Strange... I once heard that surname of his before. Was it... _Highwind_? I'm certain that I've heard such a name before. Since my childhood, I regard my parents saying the name 'Highwind', as a part of a story. I'm sure I'm about to recall whether this 'Highwind' has or not something to do with me as a kid. While I struggle to find an coherent answer, the guest told us about the life he led before he came to where are we. He was once a royal soldier, as once Clyde was, but now he settled down for Sophia and became a family man, to take care of his sons. A bunch of them, boys and girls. One of them had the same name as his and, if I recall, he mentioned another boy, a wealth kid as well as his other sons. His words were so quick that I failed to notice that boy's name. Was it... _Bradley_?

No, I must be mistook. I'm so tired of today. I was about to feel asleep, when Prescott changed the topic of our conversation. This time, his mood changed to a serious one, as his face expressed sincerity and coherence. Was he angry, was he sad, perhaps? I don't know. He looked to us as if he was about to tell us his dog died, without sheding a single tear or change the tone of his voice. Prescott said he had information, brought by him from a friend of his, a member from the High Command, who deemed it as imprecise by them. Maybe in order to not upset us, they left this recluse in their own conversation. I wonder who was it who brought this confidential message to Prescott, and why do he's sharing it with us. And mostly important, he intended to share this information with Clyde, not only because I'm too quiet for sharing a talk, but I doubt because Clyde somehow knew Prescott. I had no time to debate with such doubts in the verge of a slumber. This bit of information is about our fiend, Alexandria, and part of their plan. It was about the enemy we where about to face, seemingly believed to be seem by a certain Moogle wandering across the plateaus of Alexandria. No matter what happened, even if Bahamut or Leviathan were watching us keenly, we knew we had to face him, tomorrow or after tomorrow. His name...

General Cecil Manfred Christophe, of Alexandria.

An elderly man, without a trace or an ounce of emotion, whose stoic and threatening glare intimidates even the man with shallow fears. A living halo in reverse, where only lands dry as a desert rests. A slender figure, whose ominious appearence sparks a contrast with his unfathomed outstanding skills in battle. An expert in Holy Sword technique and non-elemental damage inflicted; condecorated with six medals and the title of former General of Alexandria for his bravery as a warrior, he ain't no amateur. Because he wears less armor than the majority of its enemies, he moves faster and smooth as a breeze from the sea. It's said that General Chistophe killed a hundred soldiers on a single battle at the field. He killed those soldiers not only because he's agile being, but because he's confident of its actions and the turns those actions take as well. His sword, Save The Queen, passed from generation to generation, were once in the hands of his ancestor, Madalene Christophe. She became from an ordinary woman to a legendary knight at the age of 13, when she fought against Lindblum's army in year 1389, at the peak of their 9th war against Alexandria, with only nine soldiers at her accompany. Later she passed, in year 1401, due to unknown circumstances. As a post-mortem homage, Alexandria ergued a statue to commemorate her victories over battles, and gave her the title of Maid of Alexandria, the only female to do it so.

Thought to be unwinnable as a deity, a soldier from Lindblum proved that Cecil were a human being, by cutting the General's ring finger from it's left hand. An useless effort that resulted on another lindbluniam death, since Cecil was right-handed, that was the only time General Christophe got hurt and lost something in battle for a weakling. As unlikely it may sound, Cecil has its own code of honour. He completely ignores potentially defenseless people, focusing on those who aren't afraid of his self, willing to die at his hands. He has no mercy over such people, he said. All that I had to say for myself is that he doesn't fight for himself, nor kill people because he does like to do it. All of his actions are justified by the fact he's fighting for his land, Alexandria, and its people, who glorify him as a hero. It's said that he, and his own soldiers, called by Knights of Pluto, inspires kids around Alexandria, much like on the same way a Dragoon Knight inspires those kids of ours. To think, once in a lifetime, humans from all the nations of Gaia were once hired as Dragoon Knights in the past... until _that_ awful incident happened. History is cruel, like Cecil pretends to be.

All the image of fear he carries accrued on himself is merely the fear of Alexandria of being pulled back downstairs in the staircase of its goals, conquers. The fear of retrocess, to be slowly burnt inside a building by fire instead of a quick choke. But Cecil can't see it, because he only obeys its orders given by Alexandria. Without the code, he's nothing more than another unleashed dog of war, and we, fools awaiting to be swallowed by him. Without our code, we are just like the Vastitas. People tied to a rope, about to fall into a ditch as dark and profound as the past belonging to the entirety of Burmecia. A past, whose consequences not even our God could eschew it from us, his people, still awaiting to awaken from a deep dormancy as profound as the one I felt, before I blew the candle illuminating the tent and layed upon my bed, as so did Clyde and Prescott.

...

* * *

_...Bart..._

_...the Major's second son..._

_...He is so quiet..._

_...Just like his father and his brother once told me..._

_...He suspects I'm, somehow, an acquaintance of Clyde..._

_...Was it just Fate who brought me to his tent?..._

_...This is the opportunity I have seek throught these years..._

_...To keep him away from the danger..._

_...I must not dissapoint his father..._

_...Once again..._


	11. The Big Sleep In Search Of Hades

[♫Tangerine Dream - The Big Sleep In Search Of Hades♫](https://youtu.be/i71P8kYPwWA)

* * *

**April 1778**

The Knights of Pluto...

Fools.

All of them. Dastards; mere puppets, being moved by the invisible hand of the King. Blindly following throught the footsteps of another, without developing some self-confidence, or 'self' of anything; a tragic mask without a brain. But me... I'm just an assassin, with moral, following of my own orders. The path they and will follow is the same as mine, and our family. They're walking on air _without me_ , Madalene.

I didn't train all these years so I could take a backseat to anyone. No one train for himself, in order to be surpassed by the other. The other doesn't train to be left behind by the skills of someone who claims to be better than his. Many wars were fought before the Airship Revolution came; many lives lost in the process of attempted revolutions. Obeying of the same principle, if there's a time to fear, then who's afraid of who? Men fought against Men, women against Men, and rats against the Man of Alexandria. Mainly we fought against the 'people' living below us, the rodents that lived on wet plains. Our ancestors thought they were monsters, children eater ones, but who could blame them, to be told the truth whispered? Even dogs can wait, unlike those hid from the sunrise over centuries.

Those rats... Easily, you could identify a burmecian just by looking at his tail ribbon.

And skin.

Grey as the smoke rising from the ashes of coal, dark as the clouds where they live underneath, members of a primary civilization, the large snouts remained the same since when humans like us were once hired as their Dragoon Knights. We used to live in a clear state of harmony, until a single chord caused the dissionance which ruined it entirely. The worst of the foes lies within the flesh, they say. A hundred of them were poisoned, by consequence. This was, and still is, the breaking point that instaured for months, years, centuries of war. Not the only reason, but more of the same. It's not my fault, nor of my people. Ignorant masses, how utterly they were stubborn to accuse us, without a density for their own fatuity with the stranger. It doesn't matter if the turtle is slow, compared to even rats, but given the advantage of 100 miles away from its opponent, no matter the struggle of his, the turtle is still miles away.

People and rats. I just pity them.

I can't tolerate this cowardice act that came from my people, my ancestors, and the rodent ones as well. I know you wasn't coward, Madalene. You were an empty back cover in a world of books printed with letters on the front. They overstimated you, those engineers from Lindblum. We all fight for something we meant. Peace is meant when war is over, and War is meant when peace is over. You didn't meant, but instead could prove you are brave. I, on other hand, also share of the same attribute of yours. A hundred of knights were once killed by your sword single-handedly by me, your successor.

To think I, while in the middle of one of those battles, lost one of my fingers to a mere insect, whom I had respect with his few moments, seconds longer than minutes, agonizing of the blade stuck in his throat, and phonemes came instead of his last words. Only a tepid would use of his final moments in the field or in the rebellion to talk about his love for the family, how they meant something to his self, and blame with rude words towards the one who killed him... if the resolve of his was enough, then why the waste of our time to carve a hole meant to shatter my pride with words, instead of admit he could not kill me?

Tight as a torniquete I am. The blood that flows throught the body of the others won't be poured by a slight cut of those javelins, not here in Alexandria, or above our plateaus. How many lives were taken by those before I came, this I and no one can't count, as the slices of breath ingested by my lungs throught the years of my life.

That boy... yes, he still wanders around the palace, when he's out of the orphanage, watching of the training of the same knights who saved him, including me. A rat once burned a house with a family, they were defenseless, and burnt within the fire. For Alexander's sake, I killed him, that misbegotten, lukewarm fool; the sword of yours, blade cold as the ice of Esto Gaza, had no remorse to demand a Stock Breather annex to his trembling heart for the aftertaste left of his. It seems the reputation of mine and of the Knights of Pluto that follow me seems to had been increased around the outskirts of the kingdom. But reputation, good or bad, those are just words. Those who say I'm good doesn't knew about my bad side, and those who are bad for me have, somehow, what we call by 'good' abilities. I commend the ability of it to produce javelins times before the discovery of metallurgy, for example.

To have the ability of fabricate objects with elements spread across to be found at the globe... On the ancient times like yours, Madalene, our Church, the same of yours, had maintaned all knowledge of the world on their own center, like the world they believed to be the center of creation. With the times, each nation had to create its own church, it's own methods of knowledge, their own people. We believe each person is born with knowledge, while those scientist from Lindblum agree that knowlegde is based on what we learn with sensations felt on this world, planet we live. It doesn't matter who's correct, those from Lindblum doesn't know the meaning of 'limit'. Their people were the first to read books and novels coming from the printing press, moving ladders, and those new steam-powered engines. They came up as a solution for our war against Burmecia.

However, it seems this 'revolution' only came for them. It also came for us... but it later dissolved, like salt in the ocean. No other nation besides Lindblum borrows them. All airships equipped with the engine that uses the mist as a fuel are manufactured exclusively at Lindblum's factories. Zebolt, that lindbluniam engineer who discovered its secret, assigned a warrant, granting him his invention's protection, and founded Zebolt Steam Engineered Shipyards Company; no one else can manufacture a steam engine without Lindblum's permission, or without Zebolt's. Greedy, don't you think? They do not attack us because we're rich enough to pay them, and they're rich enough to not invade a single country who pays them. The cost of lifes counted as a bribery in dynes of gil... Don't say that the ends and their _raison d'être_ are what justifies any means of coward. What they only do is to place who shall bright in the entire story, themselves.

Persistence is what defines us, Madalene. No matter how ill mankind is, they, me, you... we can't stop. Even thought our gods aren't the same, or if they don't even exist, we from Alexandria and Lindblum are just witnesses of their time, and we shall remain the same. Even those who lay, like you; happiness can't be found as a canary once ought to met with his death on a coalmine. The endeavored spirit of yours, throught the centuries, still guide many of us to our own goals. I am mortal, the same fact I once reject it, but I know that I am, and someday I'll die. My body, the one seem with the eyes, I mean, no other besides Death could take your and mine's body to the grave. The soul, on the other hand, needs to share of a body when left of one in time. All things left by our past remains in our mind instead, the only part of the body that has acess to memories. Good or bad moments, I was hoping for a man, strong as Alexander, to carry on my legacy. But instead, my wife gave birth to a female as her.

May she'll be taught like you...

Madelene.


	12. Nightporter

[♫Japan - Nightporter♫](https://youtu.be/YZVn9y0XfoI)

* * *

Here I am.

In a house full of doors but no exits. Alone, in the cavity of a room filled by the darkness, where my needs can't be denied. Sleepless as an owl awaiting for the early morning sound rise into the horizon by the dawn, drowsy eyes staring at the wall, my jaw is about to fall and bite off this tongue, wasted of fraught prayers spent at the chapel. Prone on this empty bed, to later watch a sky emanating of a grey, like the skin and ashes of a dying old man. The haze brought by the warm slivers of breath of mine proved that I'm alive, somehow, even when lying on a bed covered by flowers, found below the pillow I rest, and the walls of eiderdown surrounding me into a hollow space, as I hear the voices coming from outside.

Carefully, I struggle to look for a second, then I return to where I was. There's nothing else to see but darkness. The same darkness, that found a way to open my door, lurking into the floor, staring at me by the walls; above me, I see the night leaking from the roof, filling in each object and furniture from my room with the same gloomy as the obscured sky from the other side of the window. When I close my eyes, the same night found a way to sneak in, as if it was willing to persist into each space of my house. The night brought the dark into my eyes, as it also brought of its stars. Little by little, they appear where I look, glowing in tones of red, blue, even molding into a constellation of green like a colony of algae in the lake; as they came closer, like fishs being pushed by a net, to parallel into sparks near my vision, they disappear into the air, to once again appear in a row and later vanish as before.

The comfort brought by the night and its stars, even if it did only last for a while, resemble the same those arms once here to hold me into caress now rests in the same blanket I am in hiding, like a child afraid of the storm, a sheath belonging to a blade about to be uncovered by the fear that guides the hand of it's owner. As this tail of mine moves ceaseless by the trepidations of a trembling heart, a pleasant despair filled into my head, instead of my chest, aching like an egg with a broken shell. Ears burnt by the flocks of blood persisting as bones into dust crumbled, and the pain goes on from my toes, to my knees, to my joints, to the depths of my eyes; as I feel the pulse of my anxiety taking the islands into throught my arms, now I hear, if by whispers, the cry that once echoed into the silence of my period pains, as the inner voices of mine guide my arm to the candle, holding still of the fire I gave.

Hypnotized as a moth, the closer I get into the light above the wooden nightstand, the greater the menacing shadow at the back of mine becomes. As the fire coming from a distance burns into my throat, and the loneliness of this room linger on, I am about to trespass the door, not until I close the gap of my wardrobe. Unaware of what may be inside, fortunately, for the sake of my doubts, there is nothing else but my clothes. Each one looks the same, well, except for the one above them all. And here, hanged on by the hooks, lies the pieces of the outfit I and the Crescents before me used to wear as a Dragoon Knight, heaped with the mementos carried by my mind. From the rain and the others standing below it, to saw the other's by its two openings, to shield the purple eyes of mine to allow many smiles, no matter how such dreadful were the days; that red hat, the helm I once wore in my head, used to cover my face alongside this white hair. Those were the days I used to fly around the country with those metallic wings, crossing throught the wires while bearing of the weight of this same escutcheon I'm holding with my arms.

Even belonging to a kingdom without a crest, each Dragoon Knight carries with the chest the coat of arms resembling the country of Burmecia. The same was once held, as much as me, by a pair of buckles tied up in the sleeves of that coat, once wore above the unseen orange trousers. I see the piece of cloth who I once tied into a cravat onto my neck, as pale as the white of the lies I once told as a little trouble girl, blue like the regret I felt into the tears, distinguished by the threads of a coat below, whose red seem to be taking over the entirety of it as a creeper hanging on the wall; the Dragoon blood running throught the veins of the Crescent clan. Since I was a toddler, mother used to feed me and my brothers with the tip of her javelin, in order so one of us would became the next Dragoon Knight from the Crescent lineage.

The only part I still wore to this day are those gaiters on the feet. Even with them, I still feel naked, each time I look at the Dragoon outfit, who used to be part of me, part of the Crescent, and the days I've been wrapped into the garments by those buttons, holding of a spear and a duty to protect, by breaking every door lying beneath me, instead of leading a normal life as now. To think I felt dizzy later that day... and still I am. I had woken up once this night to thrown up. My head felt dazzled as the day Bart and the others found me, lying on the floor of the streets. Before, I caught a breeze in the air I flyed, and then, everything faded into this same dark as the night. I would had forgotten everything, if it weren't for those people who I protected. They said to me I collapsed in an instant, and the same happened more than twice in the same week. Since I got ill while in training, I stood there at home. Maybe it's the season that changed so abruptly, or the weather, claimed them, and still some do. I still don't know if I am alright or not. Maybe I've been trying too hard with this job as a Dragoon, I'm still not certain, but if I do needed a change of scales, that, he knew it was the right answer.

From the corridor, a silence so deep filled in, only to be interrupted by the inner voices coming from my head, and the drips of rain that came with its bloom, from the outside of these walls, as the scent of dying asleep brings back the same night from a long, yet so near, July 15th. When I have contact with then, cold as the perturbation felt by my nerves I allowed the outward wind to undertake into the layers of my nightdress, all I am meant to feel is, if even for a short moment, the warm touch of mother, who once layed of the same bed as I, and now she lay with those who lay, like father, into the same ground I learned to walk. The moisture of the fertile soil, whom my feet touched, soaked as the drizzling falling at the ridge of the mountain... The rain, as much as I, has no other place to go.

As I walk across the path below me, I see the movement of something. There's a tiny lizard in the wall. A body, translucent with the light of the candle, skin softly gray as mine between the pinkish of the early days, and those gloomy orbits filled in by the dark of the night; it walks away, while attached into the surface of the wall, as soon as I approach near it. Blindly following its path, running away from the menace it sees into me, the lizard moves, until his skin becomes a pale green, as it stands above a single portrait, bigger than his entirety of body. The painting decipts the one who created it, my husband. There are two portraits, a self-portrait on the right, belonging to his, the first I looked upon, and the one on the left, belonging to me.

The first painting of Bart, the one where he painted himself, was finished earlier than mine's. While hours were spent at the mirror for Bart to draw and paint himself in this same portrait, days had passed for his tools to decipt me. I started to think he would never finish the portrait, before I knew, that sometimes, he was fooling me. After a week, the excuses of his became the same. He needed to bring the right colors to be able to finish the painting, he said, and already said like before. What else could I do, besides stay and see for myself the results of my test? Bart is a skilled one when it comes to arts and crafts. He ain't lazy or amateurish in the spectre of an artist. After all, he was the one who brought me that spear, designed to be used by the left-handed, the first one known to be made. That light weight spear, while not as strong as the conventional javelins, helped me a lot undergo becoming a Dragoon Knight. More than a gift, I still kept it. Since that day we met up with one another, I had Bart convinced to paint me, not to decipt who I am by the eyes of an artist, but who he was by the eyes of his true self.

The surprise struck me on the day Bart finished it, two weeks later. I knew he would realize someday that he couldn't paint me on such everlasting time. So tired he was, of the efforts he gave to bring out of his mind a deciption of me into the canvas, from the early sketch, the curves of mine draw by his pencil, to each portion covered by the oil, carefully brushed to distinguish me from the surroundings. Sitting on the chair, there was I, unrecognizable without that outfit. The hair, shielding my face as the arms crossing into one ahead of my chest, and the ears, both erect, now went crestfallen to the sounds. With the brush of his, Bart caught and get hold of the vulnerable side of mine, the one not meant to be shown by the other knights, or anyone else.

We are all layers of grey, hid under a layer of the 'color' show above the canvas of our skins. This 'color' varies from who you are. Children wear green, their mother lime, the men wear green, soldiers wear blue and green above their armour, on our newborn tails we tie orange, but our skin remains the same grey. Knights can choose which color they wear. Some choose blue for the tears of mirth, others green for the days spent at youth, and I used to wear the red of the generations, until I choose to cover my body with a layer of lime, like mother. But what determine us ain't the color. The clouds can change their colors and shape with the amount of rain falling, therefore, each cloud ain't the same, but that doesn't change a cloud of being a cloud. Each color is one color, but they're all colors.

An artist is able to show what he feel with the use of colors, and the object whose colors are spread into. So, is the artist the one who transfer his feelings into the work of his, or is the inspiration of his the art meant to be reconstructed by his thoughts? Even Bart had the same question, and the answer came for us after he finished my self-portrait, and now that I look at it once again, I see more than just me, but also a piece of Bart, who is also there, with me. Bart was more than the son of Major Brandford than I was only a Crescent. So beautiful, he said, contemplating of his work done. Mere tussocks, he referred to his self-portrait, compared to each strand of my hair, falling like a waterfall, whose water flows vertically above the rocks. Like the waves of the sea, with his paintbrush, the combed white hair of mine seemed longer, overtaking the purple stain of my eyes, embracing slowly the tones of gray and push them towards me, as a back sweep. The gray, as Bart told me, decipted himself.

Artists are known to portray themselves on their work, something they can and not comprehend. A circle draw by the hand tells more about a person than the words he spoke with the mouth. Some are able to draw a near perfect one, while others went awry in the process. For an artist, the meaning of each one of their work is meant to be said by someone else, because it ain't concrete as the math and the sciences. The fear of the colours, the love of a flower, the anxiety of the curves, the emptiness of the eyes... All reality reduced to expressions and the emotions carried by them. Bart cared so much for the painting of his, that he even explained to me the reason why he tried to finish the painting as much as I wished, but he couldn't. Because of those eyes, he said. My eyes. He couldn't stand to look into them, with each day spent he went distracted by the purple of them. So he refused to paint my eyes, as he looked further at them. Because of my eyes, he felt so worthless; I was above him, but what really bothered Bart was not only because I was a Dragoon, but because I was contrary to his male nature. Because of my beauty, he felt so empty.

Then, dependant of the eyes belonging to the woman he decipted, Bart decided to hid them inside my white hair, as much as I do. His feelings and their outcomes... It was useless for him as an artist to pretend to beat them as a man. Instead of going down on his knees, which sounded like an option, but never would he do it, as his tongue on hold never had the will and time to say what I already knew he felt, instead, he found a way to express himself throught painting. So, he hid those eyes in order to demonstrate to me he felt the same way as me. Me and Bart... From the day he saw something within me, the something that pushed him to engage a conversation, and from that same conversation, the spear and the painting of ours, the later who lead him astray for those weeks.

Like a thousand islands in the sea, I saw a thousand people, just like me. But they remain islands. Islands that sink and do disappear forever. Bart felt better each time I smiled at him. My smile motivated the spirit of Bart to continue and finish the painting. My smile prevented him of sinking into this vast ocean of Leviathan, without someone. Ever since the day we meet, we never finished to brush the pigments of our souls. They remained empty, but as soon as we came together, the thought of remain empty didn't bothered us, because we felt one as a whole. Two adjacent portraits, drawn by different artists, yet they carry on of the same design.

Even thought this is just a portrait of his, now that I looked upon the face of my husband, I remember I had a dream this night, before I awoke. Bart spend the last day of his with me, before his departure, and I recall I had of the same dream on that night. I was there, inside one of the portraits Bart painted, lucidly lying on the beach, with my hands touching the sand, feets on the border of the sea, and eyes glaring at the sun over the horizon. As the sun settled down, the heat of my body was gone, as the sand became colder, and the water from the sea became warmer. Then, I heard a long branch, whispering like the wind to the blurry window. From behind me, a fisherman, with a knife on his hand, went looking for oysters. There was oysters on cliffs so high where he couldn't reach, and some below him that he didn't bothered to look. Like the waves of the sea, my hair grew larger, and embraced the fisherman from the back to push him, like a back sweep, towards me. It began to rain when I showed to him the oyster I found. He tried to open it, as more the rain falled upon the oyster.

The more the tip of his rough knife struggled to open it, as if it was the last oyster to be found in the beach, more the petals of cherry went falling, sharing of the same color of its inside. Stretching into the narrow way, as the rain poured like the sweat of his efforts throught the skin of his, finally, it was then his knife bend, the blade almost broke, and the oyster had opened. With the border of the beach surrounded by the foam brought by the restless sea, the blue of his became white, and the white of his became the blue of mine. From the tip of his knife, metal to metal, fish hooks stood upon my oyster, and only one left a small particle of dirt, the same that went flying inside the oyster. As the soul of his went away in lurch, we gazed upon the stars above the dusk. At least, Bart was here with me, on all those moments. Just two people, me and Bart. Nothing else mattered between us. It was better if we had left it on the same way it was before. This lasted, until something more than what we felt grew on me.

"Don't worry. Lenneth's there, doing her best..."

When I left home from the door, I once heard Bart saying it to our 2 year-old son. Jack. From the corridor, I open slightly the door and I quietly approach his bed. Jack. Now that Jack is a 5 year-old boy, he's at the age tooths fall like the summer rain. Sharing of the same green as other children, the same green of his father, and the red of the Crescent lineage in blood. Lenneth... Bartholomew... Jack... Such are the names we've been destined to carry on throught this life, whether we liked it or not. Actually, many of us are satisfied with that. It's easier, much easier to be given a role than make one by yourself. The reason why we agree to stay together as a group is for us to retreat from our individualities. We are the same as a group, but as individuals, we are ourselves, or what we grew with.

Ever since the day he opened his green gems, Jack looked at me. When I cuddled him, when his father took care of him, on the crib before he slept and after he awoke; no matter where he was, he always found a way to took a glare at me. They say babies learn about the world throught objects and the unexpected. Maybe the red I wore, who detached me from the other colors, was more attractive to his vision. Or maybe it was my white hair, whom his little hand grabbed and holded tightly, as the navel string which once connected us, as I secured him on my arms. My voice, echoing sweetly to his ear to the mind every time I had to sing him a lullaby when his father was tired is another guess.

Jack, unlike other families of the country, is an only child, but that won't change such a troublesome one he became. All boys are raised the same way as their fathers, even my brothers. But Jack learned from other boys, more than what he learned from his father, and me. Each afternoon, he plays with them, by playing marbles, kill Basilisks by throwing stones to break their bones, knock the door and run away from the elder ones... Things only children do. Male children, like my son. Or his cousin Dan, son of Clyde, one of my husband's siblings. The children are knew as _Nezumi_ by the elder. I also had been called this way, when I was a child. They are still free to think whatever they do want to do, without any consequences. Even when we, adults, intervene on their play, it doesn't change a thing. It's futile, because the Nezumi are meant to be disobedient, as much as we also had been with our parents. Even if Jack's behaviour is questionable around the neighborhood, he's still a child, and a child know how it feels to be alone.

"Dad. Mommy's there, not here..."

'Mommy'... The weight of this windswept word left me lost of it. It hurted more than the cramps I felt the day after. It also hurted Jack. To blame the loneliness of his to his mother like that... I couldn't protect my child from what he became. No, I couldn't protect him from what I am. But he's still my son, is he? If Jack was my son, this has already been answered. If Jack IS my son, that is the answer I've been looking for. Jack as well, and he already found it a long ago. Thanks to me, he found out his 'mother', the Lenneth who tried to take care of him, with less efforts than his father, yet she had tried, was gone, and another Lenneth, the one dressed as a Dragoon Knight, assumed her place instead. I still tried until this day, failed to do it so, but I won't forgive that I was the one who gave Jack a reason to carry on the word 'Lennie' to replace 'mother'.

While Lenneth was his 'mother', 'Lennie' is less than his mother. In order to protect himself from myself, Jack created this barrier, to withhold the pain towards the mother who created him and transfer it, along his anger and frustation felt, into the person whom he claims it took the mother of his away from the presence of the son. Soon as Jack realized it, he grew with the word 'promise' and its meaning spoken by a 'Lennie' instead. Some times, his 'mother' fullfilled of her word. Then, with the times, 'Lennie' often would play with Jack, something that became rare, and apparently never I had the time to do it so. 'Her' son forgot of those moments as soon as he grew up, and the memories of those times his 'mother' used to interact with him had mostly been erased, except for small fragments of glimpses of the lost days 'Lennie' used to not exist, except on a small portion of his mind.

To think beneath me, lies another Lenneth. No, I am just only one Persona. This 'Lennie', who Jack believes to be me, the one who have taken the place of his 'mother', is the result of the circumstances and positions that lead my son to think this way. The circumstances being my job as a Dragoon Knight, and the position of a 'mother', distant from her son. In other words, Jack avoids to look at me, the one he calls by 'Lennie', as he seeks for the lost comfort of me, his 'mother'. I'm his mother, or I used to be all day along, in other words. Bart says his father always came back at home the same way I came back each week from my job. On each night, the scars he saw left by those Grand Dragons on his back resemble the same ones I carry throught my body, he said. The more they appear, more Bart becomes upset. Bart do not want to lose me this way, even thought he still motivates me to do my best. Sure, he's worried about me, but he believes that I have the right to choose. Jack also do not want to lose me. Even thought I'm not his 'mother' anymore, I still carry of the name Lenneth.

Lenneth... who is she? Who am I? Lenneth, the pattern for all the Dragoons, an acolyte devoted of strenght, or Lenneth, who shall be taking new risks as I work on this new job, the paragon mother? Even I found a way to divide me more than my son had done. A dragon bites down with his jaw, until the flesh of his prey yields. A Dragoon Knight, on other hand, never yields to any circumstances; a Dragoon Knight is the nightporter who stands even when time decides to stand still. For the sake of my son, for the sake of his father, and for the sake of the being inside me, I shall take the job of mother, whose payment will be delivered in advance throught these days. Not in gil, because materia can't and never will handle enough to pay the abstract of the colors that reside within the layers of an injured heart.


	13. Toyota City

[Toyota City](https://youtu.be/CG3gbOrwM1k)

_This is the story of innocent men_

_Who once wandered without a destination_

_Until_ _their steps of an once long procession_

_Came into this very same nation_

_By Alexander their people were guided_

_By the plateus of Zamo and Gunitas they were sustained_

_By Pluto and his Knights they were fortified_

_By the Theather and the Canary the nobles were entertained_

_By the factories and diseases, these people who came were chained_

* * *

_Without any left promises_

_They worked so hard until they were dead_

_To later be put into the deepest holes_

_Their bodies cold as the snow_

_No one could explain how each head felt_

_Before the hands of a crushed heft_

_Now let me tell you where it all began_

* * *

_All of them were once children_

_Orphans left along the way_

_Their children shared of a same dream_

_A dream to fly away_

_Sail and never come back_

_Concrete to fill in walls into cracks_

_Their dreams slept brought them the loom_

_To navigate and shared of the land of twin moons_

* * *

_Have you ever seen the sky?_

_They ask and there's no reply_

_Adults are so occupied_

_Living their double life_

_At this time of the night_

_All they can do is fight_

_To achieve a minor_ _peace of mind_

_That's just their way of life_

_Sustained by a pack of lies_

* * *

_Some got this job made of a love unrequited_

_Life sits still only for we, the tired_

_Some work hard on the factory_

_To feed one's mouth with an entire granary_

_Some lay easily on the layers of a near sidewalk_

_Listening to the holy monk wearing a frock_

* * *

_Thought to be undead_

_Cut finely haze of burning cigarette_

_Bring some of us into same ashes_

_However, why can't some die just yet?_

* * *

_Had we been aware_

_While we sit in the chair_

_The eyes of the throne_

_Seem so prone_

_Watching into the unrest_

_No shard of mirror into himself_

* * *

_Dear Alexander_

_Can't stand the disorder_

_Never had been a lurker_

_For those who deceive_

_Maybe he can hear us plead_

_Each murmur of our prayers_

_To finish this warfare_

_Before we can bear the heart attack_

* * *

_Am I sleeping?_

_It can happen with we, the tired_

_Am I dead?_

_It already happened_

_My body can't reach heaven_

_I can't go further_

_I'm just a fellow worker_


	14. Ties of Sea and Flames

**Midnight, June 26th**

...

_—_ Hey, Sig...

— What's it, my Prince? Still awoke this hour of the new day?

— Sig... could you, uh, please...

— Yes?

— Could you tell me... tell me about who I am?

— Who are you? Something is bothering you, isn't, my Prince?...

— ...

— ...You are awfully quiet, for a Prince who once spent this same night to cry for attention, while lying on that crib. Who are you, you've asked. Your name is Gabriel. Son of King Stephanus, the youngest brother of a family of six siblings, the last child given to this world by Racquel, whom I had the pleasure to take care of since the day the Queen whispered of the last words. Ever since the day you were born at the palace, when your father went away to a fight, I spent the time of mine to teach you, my Prince. Edgar, as the eldest one, claimed the crown to his own, but you, like your siblings, is destined to heir the crown someday.

— So, Sig... It's been a long time. Yes, I understood who am I. A Prince. My brother used to be a Prince as well. Now he's the King, and when he dies for good, I shall take its place, for the sake of father. Things seemed much easier when I was a child, when he was a child. Easier to learn, easier to understood, I had no pressure given by that time, unlike this one where I stand. You, Sigurd, used to take care of me when father wasn't there. From the day he never came back, you still stood with me. Even if I, the Prince, had on my reach the nursemaids who took care and feeded my brothers, the duke, who taught Edgar how to become a king since he had 5, the Senate, who ruled for a brief time before Edgar reached its 14, the Dragoon Knights who protected us as the infantry... We had the entirety of Burmecia on our palms, since the day before we learned to walk. And still we have it, for generations.

— Yes. Kain, our first King; you, and my brother, both share of his blood. Now I remembered... before you slept, I used to tell you a story... Might if I tell you once again, but this time, shall it be told into another way?

— 'Another way'? I'm interested. Come on, Sig.

— Very well.

* * *

[♫Yasunori Mitsuda - Ties of Sea and Flames/Bonds of Sea and Fire♫](https://youtu.be/CXVrbrYTB4M)

* * *

_..._

_The story is said to have started in the Year 0. While the remaining population of the kingdoms that would became Alexandria, Lindblum and Treno builted new reigns over the Mist, our nomadic ancestors rebelled one against other, and later succumbed themselves to a warfare that culminated into their shatter. T_ _he remaining Vastitas_ _were forced to become from nomads to sedentary people, now fragmented into_ _small reigns, ruled by one leader. Those small reigns used to constantly hate deep in the heart and fought against each other, on what seemed to be a perpetual state of chaos and disorder. During that period, the people belonging from Bulu were living at the peak of their lives, living of the Frater doctrine, where everyone is equally like a brother of another,_ _while the ones left under the Mist became barbarians, often invading the cities and stealing goods from their inhabitants. They became know as the Vastitas, because of the desolation they left after their attacks and their emptiness of such a thing called piety._

**_..._ **

_—_ The Vastitas... they were violent.

— They never cry for themselves or ever cried for their comrades. Throught history, they were regarded as the true monsters lying down below the Mist; a major threat to be compared with other creatures living under the thick layer of Mist, such as the Lizard Men, nearly driven to extinction by the Vastitas, by the way. Furthermore, as the Mist hardened their hearts, the Vastitas became know by survival reports about their cruel torture methods, inserting their spears straight throught their body, until they died of agony, to later use the blood to irrigate their plantations, as the remnats of skin and fat were later offered to their god, and pieces of bones were given to the local Demiurge in order to construct houses and estabilishments. I presume words alone can't describe their violence, my Prince.

— Yes... Sig, do you think we have been returning to their state of mind?

— Never would we. Certainly not, my Prince. We may be part of the infantry, but they aren't as savages as one of our ancestors...

— 'One'?

— Yes, my Prince. You must have forgotten that we, Burmecians, are a product of the blend between the blood of people belongoing to two ethnics. The first are the Vastitas, part of ours, as well as the other people from the civilization of your ancestor...

**...**

_The situation remained unchanged, until 900, the Year said for The Advent be born in Yashar, the main city of Bulu._ _Ever since his childhood, spent at the church, a child knew by the name of Kain said he had dreams about a floating river, up in the skies. The same dreams his mother_ _once had_ _, before she gave birth to him and passed away, just like his father._ _On his adulthood, Kain felt for Lucrecia, a woman he knew since he was an infant. He married her and the two had a boy, called Nate._ _Even thought Kain had planned to_ _spent his live with his wife and son,_ _he still claimed to his people he could hear a voice from his visions. The voice of Bahamut, as he said, heard throught the sound of bells, warned him to flee with his people, the Bulus from the mountains and the Vastitas cursed by the Mist, to another place were their lives would be secured,_ _before the massacre planned by Necro, a self-declared ruler of all Vastitas, deemed to be an immortal, began between both Bulu and Vastita people, with no one dicted as a winner but just carnage and destruction left._

_For the Vastitas, wherever it rained, it meant the battle was over, because they believed the sky was about to fall over_ _their heads; since ancient times, Bahamut planned a land_ _immerse on a state of Eternal Rain to end with this threat coming from his own sons, and had choosen the one called by The Advent to serve his purpouse._ _Kain couldn't do such a measurable thing on his own, so he asked for help._ _Bahamut described two men to assist Kain on his journey. One, a foreigner whose blood belonged to the sacred Bulu, and the other, whose blood belonged to the Vastita lineage. The descriptions of Bahamut for the first man at Bulu matched with a man called Siegfried, a Chocobo tamer from the Highwind family._

**_..._ **

_—_ Highwind?

— Is there something in need of an answer, my Prince?

— No, nothing. Just this name... ''Highwind"... it sounds familiar. Are their descendants alive, Sig?

— Maybe. There's a family that claims to belong to the Highwind by blood. Incidentally, there's a man on our side that was born with such surname. As a Prince, you may haven't seem him yet, but tomorrow we'll personally see one and another of your men, Gabriel.

— Yes, I know. Could you tell me more about these 'Highwinds' for me, Sig?

— As you wish.

**...**

_Composed of his father Archibald, his mother Helen, and his younger brother, Baldwin, older than his other infant siblings._ _The Highwind's ascendants are said to be born at Bulu, but later migrated_ _to other lands. They decided to returned_ _to Bulu, after Siegfried, the eldest one son, claimed to see and listen of the same visions Kain described to them._ _Kain and Siegfried quickly became friends, and so he, and his family, assisted him to free the Vastitas from the Mist and Necro. Guided by Bahamut's prophetic dreams, they went throught the Mist, facing the utmost of a diversity of enemies, from a_ _fierciful hordes of Fangs_ _to the perverse Vices,_ _until they reached the 12th Vastita reign found, a small settlement knew as Kilde._

_Found above the hills like Bulu, near a waterfall whose water supplies its inhabitants, and a fountain at the middle of the city._ _His citzens, who once lived in other nations, were_ _discontent with the wealth of the other fourteen reigns, allies of Necro,_ _and the imposition of a martial law to opress their thoughts about a_ _a multiple force, higher than a_ _deity,_ _maybe a god, but certainly not a single one, like Bahamut; more likely a stream, attached to the water,_ _symbol of purity and principle of existence, and the living beings, such as the nature around them._

_From there, Kain earned the trusted of that people,as much as he gradually earned the trust of a 5-year-old boy, called Gizamaluk._ _An orphan, like many,_ _left on his own by his parents at the doors of the sanctuary of Kilde._ _A vagrant child, found wandering near the marketplace, until Kain caught the kid with his head underwater,_ _drowning at the main fountain._ _Kain asked to him why he would do such a thing that almost took away his life, and_ _Gizamaluk answered that no one else needed him, that he had been such a nuisance like any other kid, and nothing worthy of his small efforts could be able to help the others. At times, he found himself, in silence,_ _glancing at the reflection of his image, even if it took an hour; the static oneself, given_ _over the_ _tiniest water puddle, to the one found at the city's fountain,_ _whose ripples spread throught the round cavity_ _gave it the aspect of_ _the bends of a living portrait._ _Gizamaluk thought that he could_ _spend his life with the reflection he saw each day on water, ever if it meant to drown in it,_ _because_ _t_ _he reflection of his seemed to be the only thing near him he knew about, unlike his parents, whom he and nobody else never took a clear look, as he does with the figure and only of his projected on water surface._

**...**

— Projection. The act of mirroring your image onto another. Edgar pretends he can be as father, he acts as my father, he's the son of my father. Unlike him, I'm not resembling of father's. I'm just his son, and nothing else. Thought, I'm just worried as his. Each day, his hair found a way to fall, and his fur detach from the skin, as his sons left to his wife, my mother. How hard it was for mother and her maids to take care of us, this, I'll never know. But I know for sure that mother did her best, when she was still alive. And father...

— I see a bit of Racquel into you, Gabriel. She, like yours, disapproved of how your father led his life, but still she loved him. If it wasn't for the love your mother felt for him, she wouldn't stay in the palace by those days, as she had done, because of the sons who needed to be raised, a way your mother found to feel the same as the love for your father. You loved him too, didn't you?

— Yes. Of course, because he was my father. To think I grew without him... Unlike Gizamaluk, I had you on my side, Sig. Maybe I mirrored a 'father' into you all this time, but this Gizamaluk had no one to mirror him, so he mirrored another 'himself', the one he wished he was. No one to love, besides 'himself' and his 'image'. What do such loneliness do with a kid, I'm glad you took care of me, Sig.

— Yes. Let me continue from where I was...

**...**

_Kain looked upon Gizamaluk and his actions._ _T_ _o justify that attempt to take over his life in order to get rid of his life as i_ _f it was something right, or something wrong... If it was something done by anger or sadness; not even an adult like Kain was able to decide._ _He was just like that kid. A kid that grew without a father, or a mother to taught him._ _He certainly would do the same as the boy, if it wasn't for one thing. Throught all his time spent as an orphan at the streets of Kilde, Gizamaluk had no opportunities left, unlike Kain, who was the only one there to give him one. Just one, that would change his life in a whole. Kain decided to adopt Gizamaluk for the sake of both._ _To think Kain would go that far to support_ _that stranger child,_ _in order to find a way to relieve his pain._ _Not only does_ _they never met each other before, he was clearly a descendant of a Vastita, a baby considered weak enough to be left as food for the Grand Dragons across the heights. But that didn't matter anymore._

_Since that day, Kain saw throught Gizamaluk as his own son._ _Even if he wasn't the one who truly conceived him, he felt the need to raise him, because_ _of an invisible bond, the same one he felt_ _throught his mother's arms_ _for a_ _few minutes before she died;_ _the hold of Lucrecia's living hand throught his youth until they day of marriage arrived;_ _and the wrapping of Nate's little arm, like the cloth tied on his tail, to hold his father's finger_ _by pure instinct._ _That bond began to grow at the start both paths intervened with each other._ _Like a bird raises his_ _featherless sons_ _until he grew his own plumes and wings,_ _Kain needed to stay with Gizamaluk as a father, until that boy_ _got strong enough_ _learn to fly_ _and_ _face the world and himself on his own._

**_..._ **

_—_ Gizamaluk and Kain... Father and son... to think I grew mostly with you, Sig. Had you ever wondered why? You, of all people, was chosen to take care of me?

— Prince Gabriel... I never promised anything to your father. Your father always preferred to engage into a fight, instead to learn to take care of his sons. He left other people working for him on the palace to take care of his sons instead of himself. Your mother, on other hand, gave of her last moments for you to be born. The day before the ceremony, I wondered why you, the one who unfortunately Racquel never saw of the face, meant so much for her. Now that I see you, grown up like this, I realized the answer for the why so long I took to find. That's what a reasonable person would do, and so did Kain. I shall proceed, for you to understand of the same matter...

**...**

_Gizamaluk was willing to help in any case, but Siegfried_ _argued to Kain that Gizamaluk_ _wasn't a man enough to be the one Bahamut choose, because he had the knowledge of how someone leads such responsibility._ _Siegfried told to Kain that, before becoming the oldest brother of his family,_ _he once had an older brother above him, called Ekkehard._ _The brother of his also saw of the same visions before his sudden demise at the field. He's the one who inspired Siegfried to fight, as he did until the end._ _Throught the generations, the men of Highwind married once and some died young, for a purpouse._ _Siegfriend rather ignores the fact of Ekkehard's demise and seems_ _to_ _prefer to focuse on combat instead._

_The Highwind family, as it seems, fought for ages to accomplish their goal of secure The Advent to purify the Vastitas souls._ _Kain learned he wasn't the first one born to be considered The Advent. Eight of them were once protected by the_ _holy sword, called Durandal,_ _whose blade is said to cut throught even the hardest stone of Gaia._ _Passed down from elder to younger brother, t_ _he presence of Frater was strongly tied to the Highwind ones._ _If it was an obligation of god or not, the Fate of those people was lying on their task as skilled warriors. So_ _Siegfried was choose to secure the coming of The Advent, in order to_ _honour the name of Ekkehard, the Highwind family._ _In case Siegfried couldn't accomplish of the same goal and failed as Ekkehard, then Baldwin was his next heir; y_ _et, t_ _o fight for it seemed the only way possible to secure Kain of his own task given by Bahamut._

_Fight with swords or with bare hands, each one struggles on their way to find happiness and security._ _Since that day, t_ _o have an adult like Kain in his accompany, believing in his words whether they were near the truth or the bottom of a lie... Gizamaluk felt he wasn't worthless as once in many years._

**_..._ **

_—_ A teacher can also learn from its students as well _,_ ain't right, Sig?

— Yes, my Prince.

— You taught me so many things. Basic ones, such as 'don't eat it', for a Prince.

— You may be a Prince, Gabriel, but if it wasn't for someone who taught you an order, certainly you wouldn't be able to stand in there.

— There? I don't want to stay at the field. Never I wanted to be on the same place as father once had been. Here, on the field he died.

— Gabriel, your people need someone like you. Your brother may be in the palace, hid by such a distant boundaries from its people. The reason why he insisted to place you there was because he believe someone as you could maintain contact with the ones he rule. Not only just yor task is to obserb, but to interact with them. Assistance is needed on such times, as your father, for example, once said. That's why he left you with me. You father cared to his people more than he cared for himself, and his sons. This is what Gizamaluk lost in the way, the same valuable thing Kain and Stephanus had in abundance. Even without taking care of his own son, your father believed in someone other than his, because this someone trusted in his words. Racquel may have passed away, but her brother was there to take care of you, Gabriel.

— Sig...

— My Prince. This is just the beginning...

**...**

_Gizamaluk had no idea of how he could find a way to retribute Kain of the same way he did within that afternoon._ _Later that day, before a night of rest on the nearest inn, plans were made by the Highwind and Kain for both find a way_ _to enter throught the fortified walls of Grignard. Even the mention of that name_ _sent shivers of fear over all their bodies._ _The main ca_ _pital of the Vastitas,_ _center of their bloody dynasty,_ _where the true evil was lying all along, inside those fortified walls around that tower higher than the sky of Bahamut above,_ _to_ _send his people against the wall, and_ _no consequences at all._

_Since the day Necro usurped of the throne and declared himself to be the leader of the Vastitas by instituting a martial law,_ _riots were spread throught the capital,_ _and the calamity brought by the revolting ones made them split into two factions:_ _The Red Masks, followers of Necro's ideals of conquer and glory of the civilization throught an enduring domain instaured througth 7 of the 12 reigns;_ _and the Black Masks, composed by the ones rebelling against Necro,_ _mainly fugitives,_ _represented by the cities of Kilde and Klaire. Both cities were founded above the Mist by a group of fugitives,_ _secured by the Black Masks, also belonging to the same sect._ _Currently_ _under a siege,_ _Kilde gave all_ _support for Klaire, the 11th reign._

_Since all major routes connecting the city to the outside world had been cut or blocked by the Vastitas soldiers on guard, the people of Kilde found a way to_ _offer water and food supplies for the Klaireans_ _from a secret route, whose entrance was found unnexpectely by a child, who had blown up a crumbled wall alongside the route once used by Kilde with a Dead Pepper, a plant mainly found below the Mist, his fruits_ _commonly raised and carried by the Vastitas because they_ _perish after maturity, and their unstable seeds works as some kind of explosive when sprout with contact, being harmful within the range of explosion and speed of the throw. The nearest you are from one, the unsafest will be your later condition._ _The tunnel seemed to connect_ _both cities into each one's_ _cathedrals throught a_ _tunnel, once dug by the extinct Mole Man society, who used to live around Gaia_ _centuries before the invention of writing._ _Unfortunaly, Kilde is currently_ _demanding of the same food once given by the neighboors of Klaire, and due to the shortage of resources and the constant city growth, famine is being feared by the main population of Kilde as well._

_For a moment,_ _Gizamaluk fled from the room, and w_ _hen he returned, Kain noticed his feet was burned, pitch black and gray. Kain was about to ask why, when he and Gizamaluk, alongside Siegfried, went outside. On that evening,_ _they saw throught the inn's door a group of_ _people, from around the city of Kilde, reunited across the central fountain, illuminated by the lights of the fire._ _On each 4 years, g_ _uided by the local Priest or Priestess,_ _they reunited around the fountain to commemorate with the rites of passage, alongside_ _the dance, the painting, the music, the arts... t_ _hose and others mysterious things._

_Chaotic as the_ _fire spread under the feet of those, kids and adults,_ _walking in burning coal and ashes to test their courage, a custom inherited from the Vastitas, whose Fire is the symbol of endurance,_ _yet as beautiful as the women_ _dressed in orange and peach bedlahs,_ _dancing to celebrate the good harvest, wishing for their husbands and sons to come back soon._ _Sometimes, they make people remember things that were not expect to be remembered,_ _regardless of whether they desire to remember them or not._ _To bring up memories of such everlasting_ _thoughts, feelings, emotions;_ _at times, they cheered up as friends in the past,_ _while at other times, they would cry_ _of anxiety and uncertainty about the future._ _In the middle of a major internal crisis,_ _the faith of those people,_ _jaded of breathing in fumes, is_ _tied into an invisible_ _creed, a_ _stream connecting both Kilde and Klaire, like a force_ _polarized into all beings, like pillars sustaining the bridge of a river, whose water is the vital element for each life on the planet._

_After a night of sleep, Kain and Siegfried reunited on_ _Kilde's cathedral,_ _to gather more information about the Vastitas and_ _more about_ _the Red and Black Masks factions._ _They learnt from Priestess Berkana that_ _t_ _he Red Masks, whose leader is a man by the name of Frigg, are known by this name because of the color of the mask and the velvet wore on their bodies._ _Whoever touched or had contact with their pieces of clothes for a long time in battle would be infected_ _by the pox. For generations, the Vastitas had been trained to_ _became immune of that disease, and since them, they_ _used it on their advantage._ _Unlike the Red Masks, none of the Black Masks wear black. That's a common designation given by the Vastitas for any habitant, or captive,_ _who fled from Grignard and_ _lived with the absence of Mist, the essence of their passion with death._ _All Vastitas and his descendants that remained in Grignard had colorless eyes and gray to white hair, due to the contact with Mist enduring generations, unlike Kilde and Klaire's population, whose residents had color on their eyes, like Gizamaluk's green ones, because of their time spent above the Mist._ _They also believe the Past lives above, in front of the road, and the Future is below, behind._

_Being subordinates of Necro, who joined with Hades, the legendary weapon synthetizer from the underworld, the Red Masks have on their possession a stimulant drug,_ _called 'Drive'._ _Produced from the seeds of red poppies, simmered and_ _drank like Bulu chai, the 'Drive' i_ _s responsible to enhance their vision, agility, response time , energy produced by the muscles, and_ _pyshical damage improved two or three times than before. Its use implemented after the result of riots spread throught the capital,_ _t_ _he frenzy, split-second feeling given by the drug seemed to be_ _a way to partially '_ _break their limits', to_ _awaken the mythical 'Trance', the same who once_ _lied on the souls of thousands of deceased_ _Berserkir units, awaiting for their spirits to be_ _incarnate_ _underneath the flesh of a living one._ _Anything done under the 'Drive' over-stimulates the body, generating negative sympthons of fatigue, immobility and disorders, such as irritability and the act of self-injury_ _by overage dosage of the 'Drive',_ _as reported by Black Mask units in the field._

_With the information given, Kain and Siegfried, alongside two Black Mask units handed over by Berkana, followed themselves to the road to Klaire, while Gizamaluk remained at Kilde's inn. Kain didn't wanted that kid to risk his life once again, like he did before twice. But when did ever since Kain risked his life? The others had done it so for him until now._ _Kain had no use for weapons, so_ _Siegfried was the one who secured his life and Kain's with Durandal, the holy sword whose blade is said to cut throught even the hardest stone of Gaia._ _Kilde is struggling to maintain the trade route with Klaire, even if it meant an urge of starving and decrease of production from the city itself;_ _Gizamaluk_ _willed to cross the path of rocks set ablaze, in order to show the one he call by father he was useful and brave to bear with the pain;_ _Even Lucrecia, who was awaiting for Kain at Bulu, taking care of Nate on her own for this time being since them._ _On behalf, w_ _hat else Kain could do for those kind souls_ _besides r_ _eunite the tribes of the same race for once?_

_Fight, with bare hands or not, was his only choice, in order to put an end to the atrocities of Vastitas._ _From the tunnel connecting both cities, Kain and the party reached Klaire at once. There, they felt on_ _an ambush,_ _planned by those two Black Mask units, whose revealed to be deserted by a generous offer from Necro himself, since any other Vastita would be recognized by the color of their eye and hair._ _Priest Erasmus had already been taken care off their way before Kain could intervene, so he and_ _Siegfried_ _were_ _captured by the Vastitas units at the cathedral and later_ _were_ _sent to prison,_ _the place where the commander of Red Masks awaited for them._

_Dressed in crimson armor,_ _covered in red clothes, a white and soft scarf made of the same wrapped clothes on the neck, scars on both hands and feets_ _, presumably a wound left on the field by a brave soldier or a fool enough to be called by brave, handling a spear with the left arm,_ _he was defined by h_ _is grasp and rude attitude of his eyebrows frown, contrary to the trim composture left;_ _a genuine Red Mask, called by Frigg._ _At least, for a brief moment, they thought Frigg was a man, but inside that rusty armor, beyond the mask taken by those arms from the hidden face of his,_ _was lying the body of a maiden._ _The femme fatale, known by her own men because of what happened by those_ _who stepped on her shadow._ _Only a squalid like the one who tried to cut her eye would do that, like Gizamaluk._

_Since Kain left him on the inn, Gizamaluk followed throught his steps on the way to Klaire, in order to find the one who was supposed to take care of him since them. When Gizamaluk stepped on Frigg's shadow, she did nothing._ _Instead of cutting the boy's tongue or ears, she only turned back and stared at him, like he did with the_ _swinging_ _keys lying_ _above her waist._ _A small effort that ended up into_ _another captive;_ _Gizamaluk jumped onto Frigg, who grabbed him and locked all his hopes within that cell._ _At least, Gizamaluk wasn't alone. At least, he was closer of Kain this time. Even thought they were on adjacent cells, Gizamaluk's thoughts could be perceived by Kain's look. What would that boy become without a soul like Kain?_

**_..._ **

_—_ Lenneth...

— What is it, my Prince?

— This Frigg you mentioned, Sig... I just remembered something. No, someone. It's a woman, who used to be a member of the Dragoon Knights. Maybe it's because of the color she wore, the red, but for a moment, I... well, let's just forget it. And, about Gizamaluk... My answer is that he would become nothing, if no one else could intervene, but the liberty of his wandering around was nothing, without someone as well...

— I'm here if you want, my Prince.

— Yes, Sig. You're with me. For such a long time. Each one is born in parts, and throught time, they become a whole, as they say.

— Ahem...

**...**

_Gizamaluk bravely raised himself throught these years,_ _with only a part of him remaining._ _The uncertainty_ _about his parents whereabouts grew on his mind,_ _within the reminiscence of something_ _he took out from Frigg,_ _concealed under his chest, an aching on his heart, the itchy of his skin..._ _Later that night,_ _Gizamaluk felt ill._ _When Frigg came to see his condition,_ _secluded on that cell, a piece of red cloth was found above his chest, with small bubbles_ _erupting on the skin below. No doubt he has been infected by the pox, for a long period, without even knowing it._

_That poor boy..._ _Kain could not bear the harm he considered to be caused by his fault. Had him obeyed and remained at inn, he would not have been contaminated by the disease._ _All Gizamaluk did was in order to find a place to belong, with Kain. Even risk his short life, if needed, to find that same place, no matter what way it took, expected, or sadly, unnexpected._ _Luckily,_ _the treatment for the pox was at Pathos, a small village, the 8th reign_ _founded by the Vastitas. Frigg was the one who told it so,_ _w_ _hile_ _holding of the seemingly letargic infant over her shoulder,_ _before that remnant of infected cloth had been burned by her,_ _o_ _n an attempt to make amends and comfort Kain's thoughts, to make him_ _see her less of a threat to be taken care off and put the blame on herself,_ _as i_ _f it was her own fault that brought the unfortunate consequence._

_Why would she do that; Kain had not a single answer let. Not even Siegfried, since that kind of behaviour wasn't natural for a Vastita who lived all this time lingering with the side effects of Mist. That hair, white as the snowfields covering dead trees,_ _seemed alive when slightly touched by Gizamaluk. Those concerned_ _eyes trembled, trying to leak out a single tear, but instead,_ _Frigg remained in countenance, quiet and_ _on such a cool, allowing the contact of that being from the lands above with a being whose life had been spent on the Mist for this long. T_ _he scars left from the tips of the enemies arrows and javelins noticed by Kain all over her arms, head and neck's skin meant nothing compared to_ _the wound left on Gizamaluk._

**_..._ **

_—_ Father also carried scars on his skin. I remember when he used to came back. You was there, as well. Always there.

— The battle has its cost, Gabriel. Your father knew it.

— Not only father, but... Brandford. The Major who followed him. He was the one with more scars left. Compared to Brandford, the scars of father seemed insignificant. The one who truly fought was that Brandford. Father... he only stared at his men, didn't he?

— Even if it was the truth, your father cared for this country. Had he fought for it with the sword of his or had he left the javelins be thrown by the others; he was the King, and as a King, he knew, 'right' or 'wrong', what to do on such situation. We'll never know if he was worthy or unworthy of being a King, but those are just words. A King is a King, not the Kings. He's an individual as well, has it's own feelings, emotions... but a King has the duty to do what seems more relevant to its people, even if resulting on the death of hundred, or the deploit of resources. To carry on with the responsibility of the scars carried by Brandford is the result of being a leader. As the pain Gizamaluk felt by Kain, failure will stiffle you, Gabriel, as much is stiffling Edgar, but as a King, he won't let it persist.

— Continue...

— What?... Yes. I'll do.

**...**

_With the boy's life on peril,_ _Frigg then fred Kain, the responsible for taking care of Gizamaluk, from his cell, as Siegfried remained_ _like the other prisioners._ _From there, they headed to Pathos, the birthplace of many Red Masks, such as Frigg._ _It was a question of time for they to reach the city before the situation of Gizamaluk worsened. Fortunately,_ _with_ _the movement of both enhanced by a single 'Drive' taken,_ _the trip ended just in time enough._ _Founded above the ruins of Guerinika, the soil sowed by the seeds of kudzu and buildings covered by radius of its vines,_ _Pathos was living on days of glory since the increase of 'Drive' trade_ _in exchange of gil, the currency_ _stolen from the travellers and wandering ones from above the Mist._ _When asked by her officers and subordinates around the city about Kain and the child, all Frigg told them was the same excuse of transfering approval of both prisioners into her thralls for good behavior, a kind of ownership that wouldn't fool anyone, but who else was willing to question Frigg, the skillful high ranked Red Mask commander, perhaps? Nobody with sense would disagree with her._

_The treatment given to pox,_ _as listed by the doctor Frigg knew since youth,_ _consisted on resting over a bed, whose tissue_ _on the first day is slightly taken by pox, whose quantity increases with the days._ _Like warfare, the best strategy with more chance of success is to attack the enemy by surprise._ _The body also learns with the victories and mistakes as well; b_ _y drinking some Ether during meals_ _, the patient would have some more energy left to maintain his strenght in order to combat the remaining pox, until it vanquishes as a whole and the body learnt how to prevent it._ _On that way, throught generations, the Vastitas became inmune of many diseases._

_For a moment, Frigg took out her look from Gizamaluk to focuse on the statue at the center of Pathos. It was a statue of a Grignard commander, well-regarded by the local population and the entirety of the empire. He was knew as Gareth. Handling of the Gungnir with his arm, regarded as the spear that brought the lives of hundreds, Gareth was once a child born on a family belonging to the last inhabitants of Guerinika, a city full of deserters before the Vastitas slaughtered them, with the remaining ones becoming their slaves. When he grew up, he was forced to fight in the Gimnos battling arena, for the amusement of the crowd. Those people fought each other naked because the Vastitas believed that no armor could protect you if the end of our life had been already been decided based on the judgement of gods._

_Ending up victorious after he reluctantly fought a hundred ones falling in a row, Gareth conquered his liberty and with it he became the former commander of King Matheus army and personal security force; furthermore, he also was nominated as an official mentor of Pathos Jugend, in order to train rookies into new soldiers or Red Mask units. Then, on a certain day, another civil outbreak rise and had fallen in Grignard, together with the corpse of Gareth, who died in a miserable way like his comrades._ _Yet, until now, people regarded him for his done acts, still inspiring many to become a warrior like him since them. The armor he once carried is now wore by each ruler of Grignard that succeded Matheus since them, in a sign of respect._

**_..._ **

— Edgar is now carrying of father's armor, and his sword. He respected him, as much as me and my other siblings. Besides the blood, we carry on within us his will to continue fighting, as he once fought for us. It's painful for me to believe such man I barely saw with my eyes is gone, as mother.

— ...

**_..._ **

_With the years, the story and aftertaste left by Gareth mixed with the rumours Kain heard to be spread by people, such as the one who mentions Gareth had a secret affair, some say being one of his own students, meaning he probably had a son, or not. The first night spent below the Mist seemed the same as the one spent at Kilde. Kids walking into the coal reminded Kain of Gizamaluk, and how wayward he was to even risk his life for the father's sake. At least, Gizamaluk would be alright, and that treatment would put an end to the source of Kain, and maybe, Frigg's anguish. Not only they walked on coal, but also curled their dirty tails one to another, a game called of 'Rat King' by them. Whoever was the first to let go of the tail tied tightly as a node with the others was the winner, even if it meant to flay or tore the skin apart from your own body. What kind of awful fun they had since infants, he tought._

_From there, Kain and Frigg, holding of Gizamaluk in a wrapped piece of red cloth, went to a place, where instead of green vines of kudzu, the walls of that house had been overtaken by a red creeper; that was Frigg's house, where she stood until she turned 16, the age of consent to become a member of Vastita infantry. No one from the general populance knew who Frigg was, before she became a Red Mask, as much as who Kain was before he had been chosen by Bahamut._

**_..._ **

_— ..._ Before my brother became the King, he was just like me. A Prince. Now I'm his Prince, heir of the crown in case he passes away.

— Yes. Exactly...

— Edgar... Why do he always avoid to look straight at me? And his sons, imitating him? He, like his sons, think I'm a failure.

— What?... My Prince... don't say such a thing before considering the facts.

— The youngest brother, that's the reason why. Edgar blames me for our mother's demise. Mother would still be alive, if it wasn't for me. So healthy she was, before her last pregnancy, he said.

— Well, this is what Edgar thinks. Racquel was, in fact, suffering from an unexpected disorder since he was young, before you were even conceived. From the breakfast to dinner, each food given, and the taste felt dissapearing with the bits of crumbles left. Sensations never again felt on the same way. Whatever happened to her tongue, each morning, afternoon and night, Racquel barely felt the taste of the meal she ate and the wine drank. Of course, the one who had been the most affected was your brother, Edgar. Your father used to be away before you were born, and when he was, Edgar stood there with Racquel, and his younger siblings. He never accepted the one who once feeded him was now unable to feel the taste of things as before. For Edgar, the meaning of Racquel's taste loss meant more than a single taste loss. It meant she would lost more with the process.

— Lost... more?...

— The appearance, the confidence, the colors... Edgar feared this possibility to happen. Stubborn as always, he blamed Stephanus, his father, for not doing a single thing, which later resulted in a punishment. No one could do a thing, except Edgar, as he thought. Ever since a child, he cared for his mother. He wanted to see her better, to gain strenght, he believed such a miracle would happen to heal his mother's condition someday. Edgar wanted his mother to regain the taste, because she had already lost something in the way, the same 'something' Edgar carried within himself: Love. He was in love with his mother. The love of his father, only Edgar could give it to Racquel on the days the King was gone, and his life was spent into the field.

— In love... with mother? Sig...

— I liked Racquel, not as much as your father and Edgar, but still, we were siblings. A bond, the same that grew with Gizamaluk and Kain, was there with us, from the day we were born. There are bonds you are born with, and those who you create bonds in order to find security. Edgar wanted a shelter of his own, while your father needed someone on his side to offer cosiness on hard times, the same once felt by a mother. Now you can understand the shock of your brother when you were born, Gabriel. Your father said nothing, as he just looked at you, and the body of Racquel. We knew your father felt something about Racquel. He just had no time to express himself, to show the feelings hid underneath that skin of his. On the other hand, the one who spent most of the life of his with Racquel erupted. On the same second Racquel's soul left this world, you cried, and Edgar yelled. He didn't accepted his mother could have died, after all he had done for her, and didn't accepted his father couldn't cry after standing near the body of the one whom he loved. As if you claimed for a mother's attention to be taken care of, the one who cried was you, Gabriel. From that day, Edgar thought his mother lost more than her taste. Completely, Edgar lost his mother for the mere existence of yours.

— So Edgar thinks this way... or used to think. As a King, he seems more reasonable, but still, he lets the past to pass in throught his mind. The only failure of his... is that he insists to keep on living with the resentments of the past.

— As much as a certain someone...

**...**

_Invited to be lodge in a guest room, Kain had to watch over Gizamaluk, lying upstairs on the same bed with the disease spread on the red blanket, and carefully give each day his dosage of Ether, so he could bear with the illness until his body got rid of it on his own. No matter how long, when the effect were meant to be saw by the eye, Kain hoped that boy's strenght would endure, as much as his will to live, alike a seed from a foreign land raised on a dry soil; so, he would be no more a motive of such a worry, regret carried over like a stone on his back. But Gizamaluk couldn't die so easily, because he and Kain already tied their tails on another._

_If Kain believed Gizamaluk could recover, then Gizamaluk, just for another day, could, after all he passed throught, to once again prove he is willing to not be back down so sudden, by using anything left on his own to one day stand on his feet, with the eyes wide open to the world he live. That spirit of his, Kain knew for sure, certainly would find a way to go up in the ladder and burgeon into the sparkling sunlight. The same Frigg seemed to believe, on her own way. After all, she was just_ _experiencing new things, almost never felt by the Vastitas she belonged._

_With the days spent at Pathos, not only Kain had attention over Gizamaluk, but also took care of Frigg's house when she was away._ _Always there to clean the dust hiding below the carpet, wash the dishes made of clay,_ _to prune the growing vines of kudzu from the walls of the house and garden... Another daily quiet life, spent_ _when she went away to buy at the market._ _With or without the armor, as he noted with the days, Frigg had changed. She looked like_ _a common Vastita housewife, wearing of that single lime cloth, always carrying of a knife in the pocket, just in case someone tried to_ _beset her. Beautiful as the sight and scent of a rose, althought covered by spikes that allows no one to hold her in the arms, Frigg owned of the same i_ _ndependence from before, or pretended she could._

_From the dinners accompanied of Kain to the soups given to Gizamaluk before he could withstand the bitter taste of the Ether;_ _on a starry night, rare to be seem for the people living at the Mist, lying on the roof to gaze at the sky, when asked by Kain about why she was cooperating with him, one word came from her lips: Selfish._ _Frigg admitted all she had done was for the sake of herself,_ _like the many stars that shines for themselves_ _._ _By giving Gizamaluk a shelter to rest, and allow the one he calls by 'father' to stay with him, Frigg felt better when satisfied of the pain of the others, because it was better to do something than do nothing._ _To live for the sake of the other, besides themselves, is a kind of feeling long lost by the Vastitas. From that day onwards,_ _the image of a Frigg who once Kain thought to be refractory towards people... shattered like a mirror as a whole since that short moment._

_Later that night, f_ _rom he deepest layers of his memories, immerse in a dream,_ _Kain saw a faint glimpse of the light belonging to a distant fire merged into the void of darkness. He_ _had forgotten his purpose left on the way, and no news from his comrade, Siegfried. Nothing about Klaire and Kilde, or his home at hills, where Lucrecia was raising Nate. F_ _or all these days, Kain had not been secluded at Pathos not because of the burden he felt towards Gizamaluk._ _It was the burden of someone else that interrupted his way to bring his people the choice of Bahamut._ _The child found at Kilde,_ _who felt better as the days had passed and the symptons dissapeared, was no more a reason for Kain to stay at there._

_17 days, and Gizamaluk was already full healthy, seemingly_ _immune to the pox, c_ _ould walk once again, even talk and look at his father, but still Kain and him stood at Frigg's house,_ _with some invisible force pulling him to stay._ _On that fateful morning, while he took care of the flowers from the outside, as Frigg opened the door to go somewhere else,_ _Kain stood in front of her, decided to ask her why secluding them from the world. Frigg said nothing, and as_ _lies spread like lices, _rats like her couldn't bear to escape forever from an eartquake with such strenght, who persisted until_ _the reminiscense of someone long lost were saw throught her eyes._ _

_When Kain spoke about Gizamaluk,_ _who had something to do for the reason of her burden and why she left the armor of a Red Mask commander she was,_ _Frigg ended up the conversation that didn't even started and that suspicion of his only had upsetted her. With b_ _oth lost for words, Kain_ _accidentally, without no purpose,_ _stepped over Frigg's shadow;_ _as he was about to tell his apologies,_ _a_ _straight cut was delivered to his right arm by that knife. Shocked,_ _Frigg had no chance to help stop the bleeding of Kain or speak to him_ _since them,_ _remaining quiet instead._

_Next to Gizamaluk's window, flowers were raised. Y_ _ellow on the right, as the happiness and the good wave of expectations felt by his father, and Blue on the left, as the calm and restless ocean of stability between reliability and anxiety;_ _thus_ _were born the first hyacinths. But,_ _from the repressed pain Kain felt by the tip of the sharp blade of Frigg_ _, a day later were born of his dripping blood felt from his arm to the flowers of the left the first_ _purple hyacinths. Purple of the same shade_ _that grew on such flowers filled into Frigg's once grey eyes like the Mist, because for the Vastita, it hurted to cry, enough for the red of the veins spill over her vision as blue like the tears shed..._

**_..._ **

_—_ ...Mother. Did mother cried when she gave birth to her son, or it was just me alone, Sig?

— Your mother... to 'cry' is a mere single word, an easy way to describe such unmeasurable pain. veryone feels pain, my Prince. Some feel it on different ways, as Frigg once, and still felt, as your brother...

**...**

_It all became clear on that dim night, when the shadow had its own story to be told by the owner of his. As if Frigg so feared that thing like a kid, had no self control over it whatsoever..._ _How do you create your 'self', your 'beliefs', she asked. You create your 'self' from what people taught you, mainly._ _You're born empty, but ready to learn. The family is the diminished part of the State, created in order so 'you', since a baby, could learn of what the State taught you, from the words of your father, or mother, or sister, or brother, someone older than you, that learned from the same way you'll learn._ _With no exception, any Vastita is said to be born under punches. Violence is the basis of the Vastita 'teaching' with their children, verbal and not, defined as basis of their 'society' in a whole. In order to become a Vastita, you had to retaliate. Throught lies, deception, mutilation, corruption, death..._

_No Vastita, from the day they were born, lived; instead, they survived._ _No sly doubt about it._ _But each one is born with a sense, the innocence part of our good nature, belittled by the ones over you._ _The beliefs are institued by the same ones who are one;_ _the family, at the command of State, was in charge to develop a trust to their young ones, in order to share of their beliefs to the new generation. You are told_ _a shadow stands below the body, it's natural it remains below, but what if it stood above you, like the darkness across the night sky, where you can't see anything else? The shadow of your father's arm stands next to_ _the unseen shadow of the comfort given by your mother's womb, both lying within your 'self', while the shadow of the ignorance given by and to both lies above your 'self'._

_Everything you see is a star, because you had been told it is a star; e_ _veryone besides the Vastitas you see is a foe, because you had been told it is a foe;_ _everybody believes what they are told, because they got no sense to refute the family on your own. They are what is your 'own'._ _To become a Vastita, you needed to be emptied of those stupid ideals of 'self' and abandon the 'Frater' as you reach maturity,_ _they say, or else you will never reach the truth told and be punished by them. By them, she referred to the 6 major Demiurges, members of State, founders of the Jugend of Pathos who once reunite on the reign to a test._

_They each had in ther possesion a Midgardsormr, giant snakes who seemed to measure 2 meters of of height and 30cm of a widht body – counted by today's measurement system. Possesing of sharp black scales, birth from the offspring of Uroborus, the snake said to had falled from heaven, kept at Grignard, the Midgardsormr swims on the Stige, the river near the outskirts of Pathos, as the children where thrown in there by force. While some of them ended up with a choke on the lungs, drowning in blood, the remaining ones are attacked by the snakes. As they wrap around the child's body, breaking the bones, the weak ones shed of their last tears without even being able to scream, because of how tied the constriction of those snakes, and the more they struggled against it, the stronger the grip fastened as the sudden stroke felt on head. Whoever survived, a few ones like Frigg, had passed the test._

_How cruel wasn't enough to describe the raw of those stark words, and the mark of a painful constriction_ _left below the scarf who once covered of the same neck._ _The flow of pain felt at the moment, pumping throught a wounded heart, was nothing compared to the weight left to a wound carved so deep be carried for a lifetime. As Kain looked further keenly at Frigg's soul, stripped down to the bone, he saw visions a child, being hurt plenty by the whip hitting on her back, tied on the altar dedicated to the goddess of Persistence, arms and legs scratching of the prurience emanating from the pinkish bubbles of pox, the skin burnt by the cold nights on the harshest of the winters, while lying on a bed of twigs without a piece of cloth to cover the naked body... all done to raise new soldiers, with no particular 'self' and secluded of their 'Frater' into ashes belonging to a burning bridge, to be stepped over in order to trigger the inner Vastita to rise earlier from its refuge, the shadow beneath them all._

_For Frigg, the world had all his sides inmutable and no meaning to exist besides throught the minds of few, like a said to be perfect triangle. Frigg was about to end the conversation, bury it at once, but then, she had perceived no reason to keep it away on the wings from Kain, because she saw Gareth trought him, listening carefully to her words. Those eyes forced she to confessed that, besides her mentor, Gareth was like a father figure to Frigg. A father_ _born from a stranger family, that gave her a shelter,_ _Gareth_ _even listened to Frigg's personal problems and understood of them clearly,_ _never showing a_ _sign of distaste for each one of her problems, always there to give his advise._ _Frigg_ _needed someone,_ _unlike that shadow over the years, to tell about_ _the woe attached to a secret kept locked, meant to be_ _told only for Gareth. One slip of tongue, and everything would fall like a landslide into her._

_Without Gareth, Frigg became a compass without a north to be pointed. She knew Gareth fought for his country, but why he had to leave, wondered the lonely one. The strenght of her alone may had sufficed enough the demand of Grignard on her own, as it seemed by the ot_ _hers._ _To regress, not develop your 'self', but instead share of a 'self' without developing your own; call it something contrary to the brave and fierce image of a Red Mask that slowly vanished from Frigg's 'self'_ _or whatever, but Frigg was finally showing off her 'true' colors, inside the pitch black world of her._ _To copy the moral, behavior of a family meant to raise you, to create you..._ _how could Frigg discover the 'you', the 'self' without them? The 'own' carried bu the 'other'?_ _A façade that deceived everyone_ _of 'his' weakness, the co-dependency of being 'they' hiding underneath that shadow;_ _Frigg died once_ _with her innocent and Gareth's demise,_ _and_ _became a man instead of a woman,_ _because of the pressure given since when 'they' are born._

_By 'they', Frigg meant all women belonging to the Vastitas families._ _Mother, aunt, sister... and all the pressure suffered by the weight of the State and Clergy, one and same structure, during war times. With the_ _majority of the Vastita army composed by proud male soldiers, and as the_ _high amount of them meet the end of their lives at the warfield or in the civil disorder outbreaks,_ _grated for being able to protect their homeland and wifes left at home, it was common the decrease of the male population. The solution was for the Clergy/State to initiate a policy to incentivate the union act during those times._ _The_ _more the sons, more prospere live would become, believe the men of Bulu; for the Vastitas, the more the men, more prospere the war._ _Many children were born from those periods of policy, including Frigg, and her sisters, her mother, the sisters of her mother..._

_With such destiny reserved to her,_ _Frigg turned into a man, engrossing her voice,_ _erect posture, javelin,_ _heavy armour, pointy spear..._ _she wasn't the only female disguised as a male, but was an example to all._ _Selfish of her 'self', Frigg wore red not because 'he' was a Red Mask, but the red of the armour and clothes, underneath and beneath the armour, were used to not hide the_ _red poured of of her enemies, but the 'red' of herself. But a_ _gainst the mirror, Frigg couldn't confront what the bends, parts of a body told to 'him' is truly 'her'._ _Women had the tendency, from the eyes of a man,_ _to be beautiful in any way, no matter how they saw themselves._ _It was the nature, pulling one of its tricks to attrack opposite sexs to the junction of a being._ _Frigg couldn't stop insisting to herself that Gareth, the one whom she shared of the inner intimacies, left her to lead a life on her own. Until then, when the 'red' of Frigg dissapeared, and s_ _omeone that reminded Frigg about the 'his' awoke inside the_ _'her'_ _... Someone that told Frigg to trust in her own strenght and have faith in her own destiny... Someone like Gareth, a son of his,_ _raised from the frivolous yet painful labor pains. His name..._

_That's when Gizamaluk came to the room. With eyes stained in purple, a color that engulfed of her once pale iris, Frigg stopped the conversation to stare at him. He was healthy, able to walk freely_ _once again. A soul no more tied to the bed where they are born and die someday; It was Gizamaluk, Kain was certain of it, as much as Gizamaluk was. Instead of dozen of them as demanded, Frigg_ _only had a lost long son, the same found on her arms once again. When that baby was born, as Frigg told, she wasn't able to bare with the education methods that boy was supposed to be taught,_ _because 'he' was a part of 'her', and 'her' was a part of 'he'. Raised to be another fragile soul, without discovering her 'self'; those scars on the back of Frigg reflected upon years of torture persisting_ _like the flame of the nation, trespassing the skin and later habitating the boy's heart. Was she as mothery like her mother, or as fatherly like her father; to give the child another world to live seemed_ _to be the only choice, so before Gizamaluk could open his eyes, Frigg secluded him from the world she lived, because she feared her child, the same child of the 'father' whom she missed and wanted_ _to stay, to be taken with the shadow she grew onto._

_It was all done to aliviate her own personal sake, then and now, as Frigg once thought. The things Frigg felt for Gizamaluk when she left him on his own... Things that couldn't be easily explained. Those things felt as a whole were something more than selfish. Frigg knew how excruciating was the process of a child to become a Vastita. For all these years, she blindly followed the path of others, because she had no other option, besides what the 'other' demanded. The Vastitas, for centuries, never progressed to freed themselves, simply they preferred to had fallen apart into methods of superiority and dominance._

_Frigg and_ _Gizamaluk were both raised on different corners,_ _sharing of the same sky with two colors,_ _yet they shared of the same blood and principle of existence. A son whose reflection once was his only accompany, and a mother still afraid of her own shadow; the act of reflect upon objects demonstrated both had a bond hid by the fact of 'him' and 'her' being lost into different worlds and themselves. Abandoned by the parents, raised by the pain, althought the shadow grew with Frigg, it was of her own inner choice that the same Gizamaluk she found once again had the opportunity as a kid to counter the effect of years of desolation, to shift the Vastita paradigm since Frigg moved him to Kilde and years later Kain met with him, as a bond tied like a missed ribbon grew on them._

**_..._ **

— Frigg... she was just like mother, wasn't she? The reason why her life was taken away...

— It's natural for each living creature to fight against other creatures and each other, like the Vastitas once had done. But what makes us more than mere rats is that we fight for the others. In order to protect her own offspring, a mother like yours would even take of her own life to protect you. Frigg, as a mother, secured of Gizamaluk's life as the same way Racquel secured the other, you, to live. Edgar may be right about you being the reason Racquel is gone. But your mother... she cared for the others above herself. That's the relevance meant to be told. Sacrifices taken for an only being the sake of other beings; and for this same purpose, your mother stood there, agonizing into the pain, afraid of what would happen, as something already predicted by a dream, but... That's part of our nature, the human side of ours, that separates us from mere animals. Mere Vastitas.

— Mother...

**...**

_Fate already dicted Frigg and her people to be born and bequeath of the Vastita blood, because their parents and ancestors were also Vastitas. Frigg didn't knew who she was, because the destiny said to be dependant of her own choices didn't existed. To choose who you are, on your own, to follow your destiny? That was something a Vastita could not do, because no one has a 'self', since the family was in charge to avoid the newborns to develop one. If Frigg didn't knew to follow her own path, didn't knew how to develop a 'self', then what about choosing the destiny of the 'other', like the 'other' had done all throught her life and the lives of everyone? By saving Gizamaluk, unable to choose of his own choices, from the same pain she wasn't able to avoid since little, Frigg understood why Kain lived for the sake of others. Not only because he felt better of himself, but because his life was tangled in a web of mutual benefit. Everyone is you, and you is everyone; The same belief persisted, with divergent meanings on both societes._

_For the Bulu, the 'you' coexists in a space with other 'you', meant to be helped. The 'you' can't live without the 'you' that resides on the 'other'. The more helpful 'you' are, more of the good nature that the same 'you' were born with would grown each day; for the Vastitas, 'you' are everyone, then the 'you' that resides into the 'other' would be quiet enought to not be able to question the atrocities carried and supported by the hands of the entirety, knew as society, over the time. If, by any chance, someone developed a 'self', then it meant more could discover their 'self', and the sense awoke on the mind of the 'you' would cause a rebellion against the method spread into the society, demanding of drastic changes that would entail the end of the control ingrained over centuries._ _Then, the remaining ticks would retaliate on the way they had been taught since infants._ _Violence is the term that means their excuse for an existence. No matter how things went, violence was there to be used by the Vastitas to accomplish of their same goal._

_As Frigg told by Kain, Necro, the leader of the Vastitas, who seeks destruction in constructions made against his and other king's ideals, once had contact and tried to nobble Leviathan to summon a tidal wave into a rebellion spread at the outskirts of Grignard, but the god refused to do it so, fearing that Bahamut might had punished him later the act of his had been done. From the underworld, below the sea of Leviathan, Necro had contact with Hades, the weapon synthetizer from the same place. Not all weapons given by Hades were just swords, arrows and spears; Hades also had in his possession the beasts of Chaos. Even Necro, who claimed the beasts to his feared them._ _Kain stranged it, because he had been told that Necro was 'immortal', but Frigg refuted his thought._

_She told that before Necro became the king, he was one of the six Demiurges from the main Vastita reigns. When he invited the first Advent sent by Bahamut to his house and killed him, Bahamut condemned Necro to live on eternity by trasnferring his life into a candle. It took time for Necro to realize the truth about his punishment, and that he wouldn't live forever as he thought. On the same way Necro lured that man to his net, Bahamut used of the same trick, to hide the truth of Necro about the candle, that didn't made the Vastita into an immortal, but instead, it did made Necro became more mortal than he was. From a single blew of a Vastita more trustful and honored as Necro, the life of his would vanish in an instant._

_Condemned to live forever at his will, Necro told to his people, as a King, that the only true world was where the Mist reached. They believed it, of course, as they already believed in what the other said. Its said the life of his had been long sealed into a flame by Bahamut, nowhere to be found, hid somewhere from outside the Mist. Before Necro, the Vastitas hated each other that didn't resemble them. Now, with the paranoia spread across the reigns, it became clear all Necro pursues is to hide the fact he'll die someday into the pressage of killing the others, before he die as well._

**_..._ **

— Immortality disguised by mortality... If father was, at least, immortal...

— He is, my Prince. As a King, Stephanus will stand still against time, as much as the myth of Kain endure until now. You'll be soon as immortal as your father.

— Only because I am a noble? A descendant of his?

— No, because you are Gabriel. 'Noble' is just a word to make those who are rich superior, a 'have', above the 'have nots', in other words. A King is a Noble, but a Noble is still a denomination, just a 'word' with a meaning to fullfill. Words have meaning, their own since they were created. But you, 'Gabriel'... your name, wrote on paper, means 'hero'. But what makes you, 'Gabriel', truly a hero? You, your brother, your father... you're all the same in blood, that's true, yet you are still fellow Burmecians. But you wonder, what is a Burmecian? Before Kain came to reunificate its people, our ancestors, the word 'Burmecia' and the designation given to its people, both didn't ever bothered to exist on paper, but instead they awaited within the mind of those who believed in a better place, to be called home.

— And this home is where I was born. And the one who gave me this name...

— When you were born, Racquel had already decided what was going to be your name. She choose Gabriel, because you stood within her as a hero for an entire month, like your father stood fighting for Burmecia. Since then, you've been called Gabriel. But 'Gabriel' ain't just the name of a hero. Unlike words, only the persons can find for themselves what they do mean, beyond the name. But when they aren't able to do it so, their souls are easily manipulated by what the other thinks, by the words. The Vastitas believed they were 'empty' because such 'emptiness' drove them alive, as they believed, and were taught to believe. In fact, it was all just a way to allow their emptiness to be filled in by more of the same emptiness. The 'have nots' wanted the abundance of such 'haves' to be gone. No one is better than yours, nor you're better than anyone. All Vastitas felt themselves empty, well, except for one...

— Frigg...

**...**

_Kain had such abundance he carried throught his life. By abundance, it means his feelings, emotions... qualities of a being. He didn't accept what the entity knew as Necro had done, and would never forgive of its actions. Kain once thought of the same when he heard about the Vastitas for the first time, when he was a child. Now, as he grew up, his thoughts changed considerably, and more with the days. To be instructed by Bahamut to save its people, people... To think the Vastitas were 'people' all the time. Helpless people, pleading to live,_ _ever since the day they were born,_ _no matter how._

_As said once before, they didn't even lived, but survived._ _To attain 'Life' was their goal._ _Live, for the Vastitas, only happened when they died, for good._ _Then, w_ _hat was that life, the same one_ _whose souls_ _hanged on until the end?_ _That life, spent below the Mist, was the one_ _you learn to live, before you could_ _truly attain the Life awaiting for you in the after._ _All Vastitas lives were the same, because they were born, grew, learned, killed and had children on the same place, this place belonging to the Mist, its true ruler, and the lands where the rain was secluded in a seldom state._

_Frigg learned to 'live' such 'life' with the shadow of their beliefs slowly overcoming her as a whole._ _The fear, the pain, the anger... to be hurt, and feel nothing; to keep everything felt inside that stalwart skin._ _Such reason enough to be afraid of the shadows,_ _both_ _always following you with your same steps._ _That's one of the reasons why Frigg gave Gizamaluk a life she never had, an opportunity for her son to grew with another life, instead of growing up on the same way as his mother; to be given_ _another world to belong, the same where Kain grew within, a place where the bright sun could_ _vanquish such persistent bit of shadow present on every one of the Vastitas._

_Kain, Gizamaluk and Frigg... Was Fate who kept them as one? Frigg wanted to live more honestly with herself. She wanted to live with Gareth, the one who had what she had not, lost in the process of belonging a Vastita. What Gareth had, was the same as his son and Kain had. Everytime that shadow insisted to rise and keep its owner on a strife with another, the one who were hurt most was Frigg herself. That's why Frigg didn't hesitated to attack, or to reject Kain, but instead, she accepted he and Gizamaluk, the lost son, into her arms. The only one who Frigg's shadow never harmed was Gareth, and his son, who shared of his father's will to keep on within this world, even on such desperate situations. Kain, as Gareth, would never kept for himself its 'Frater', but he would instead share of it with the others who needed it most. If Frigg had realized it sooner..._

_No 'sorry' was pleaded that night once. Frigg had her own way to answer the questions given by, and she already had forgiven Kain. She tried to force a smile, but that wasn't enough, thought it was the first smile shed in years. Frigg was willing to help Kain on any way she could, as her son once had done, to find a way to recognize herself and do the same for the_ _people she lived within the Mist. To bring Life instead of a life,_ _to live on the sun over the shadows of the past;_ _that was the goal of the one who Bahamut assisted to Kain._ _Either man or woman, Frigg was the one Vastita meant to bring an end to the suffering and dependance brought by the lineage that stood over the centuries._

_All that was left was for the Reunification to happen,_ _and the souls to be cleansed, was to fight against Necro. Being the leader of Vastitas, the centerpiece of their beliefs, such the fragility of Necro's life was_ _disguised by the same protection given by his people, and the Red Masks whom he hanged over control as the 'Drive' he gave to them._ _Paranoid of his self,_ _the trust of Necro were left on anyone, not even on his most loyal men, like Frigg._ _His life were hidden somewhere, and only he and god knew where. On a dream, Kain asked to Bahamut where the candle holding of Necro's life were hid, and Bahamut answered that, before he could find it, first he needed of a sword called Durandal._ _The same sword belonging to Siegfried, his whereabouts unknown, but Kain believed he was still a captive at Klaire._

_On the next day, the last of his days at Pathos, Kain decided to went away from there and go to Klaire, but not alone. Without wearing a piece of her red armor, whose clothes of same color once were responsible to harm Gizamaluk,_ _Frigg followed Kain, as_ _her son did the same. On the way, a group of Red Masks_ _obliterated their way to reach the exit of the reign._ _Unrecognizable for those she stood with an armor all along, some not even knowing it was 'she', Frigg could not do nothing but walk backwards against the tips of those javelins._ _For the first time, she felt the same those enemies she fought felt._ _The same Gareth may have felt, as another child during the occupation of Guerinika by the Vastitas._ _The majority of them retreated,_ _afraid of someone who carried on more fear than his, before their last expressions were engulfed by the horror of a face hew down. Frigg wasn't the one who killed whom she, ordered by Necro, pursued. Instead, her men, and women disguised as such like herself, had the bloody duty hanged on by the same power._

_That power... When Frigg saw once again Gareth's statue on her back, she took out her scarf, and showed it for the ones once ordered by her commands, the ruler's invisible written commands. She had no pride or same selfish to show off such a traumatic experience, but wanted to see a reaction she was expecting to come out. They also shared of same experience, they were once children, Frigg thought. Children born with the Vastitas, who had of the same destiny, from the beginning of what they call by lives, until they achieved a 'Life' in the end... Children given such power grown by the hatred they felt under the supervision of the entirety of the eyes of the nation... Children who kill to live, because of the tale and each word told by their injured ears over years of creation of a 'self' not designated by them, but forced to be by the other..._

_What those Red Masks were meant to be before they became such Vastitas, if they weren't raised by them? A_ _s the everything, everyone_ _seeked for an answer. An answer alone never came, as they died for what they believe to be it._ _Live was the answer, but how where they supposed to Live? Before they lived a life, they had to die, so they could be reborn as Vastitas._ _What Frigg had done... to allow strangers and their feelings_ _to trespass into herself; feelings once forgotten to be shared by the remaining vessel left after years. That_ _wasn't betrayal, but a chance_ _given once again to_ _fullfill an opportuniy of centuries, for a god, for a friend._ _Both things didn't mattered for the Vastitas, but for Frigg, they had a matter since the day she saw Gizamaluk once again._ _To make the Vastitas learn abouth themselves and care for the 'self' they find on the other self._ _No matter how hard the upcoming fight should have went on,_ _in a world of shadows,_ _the greater is the near light. By releasing of the Gungnir spear_ _with the bare hands_ _from the statue of the one who truly raised her_ _, Frigg was prepared to fight against those who she once fought with, but to be followed by those who were on her side as well._

_Given the circumstance, more followed into Frigg's side than reject it. The few ones who were left on the other side_ _fought against Frigg. Alone,_ _she accepted the battle and its outcome. Five were defeated that morning. That spear... such power_ _with the Gungnir, and within its owner._ _It wasn't something an ordinary could do, and understand._ _It was, and still is, a long and painful process to become a Vastita._ _Some kill by fun, some kill by revenge, and_ _many kill because they want to Live._ _Frigg killed the nameless so they could find a salvation for their sorries._ _It was their decision, it was all they meant._ _From the pain they were raised, and by such pain they were declined into dead. If things went easier as Frigg wished they could..._

_A wish... It was possible, but seemed impossible to reach._ _As Frigg and her people headed straight into Klaire_ , _where a rebellion led by Siegfried started,_ _more of the same wish faded as many wishes once had._ _Why she and they kept fighting one against another? They were all the same, raised by same fathers._ _They all fought for what they believed, it was what they learned to live with. Each one has a belief, and each one is part of an 'one'._ _Thought this kind of thought was meant to be kept, as seem with Kain and the Bulus,_ _Frigg, as many who joined her,_ _demanded of a new belief. By breaking the boundaries with another people from another civilization, t_ _here was no truth left,_ _or an 'absolute' belief._ _All that remained for the Vastitas was just a way to pursue a 'stable' condition, a 'better' way to estabilish the relationships once vanished from the memories of the ones who carried within the name 'Vastita'._

**_..._ **

_— ..._ I wonder if this story will ever end, Sig. I'm... already... a bit... tired...

— Each beginning is meant to have an end, my Prince. Just wait a little longer, and see for yourself the conclusion...

**...**

_While the turmoil went spread into Klaire and Kilde, and victory were decided by the men and women who followed Siegfried and Frigg, the unnexpected happened._ _F_ _rom the distance of that afternoon_ _, when the sun was about to settle down and_ _everyone was preparing to celebrate the end of the battle, Red Masks burning each of the their infected clothes, Kain saw_ _the entirety of Bulu and its inhabitants went away into the colossal mouth of the beast called_ _Atomos, in possesion of Necro,_ _whose void absorbs its victims to a place no one knows where it leads, presumably the afterworld._ _It lasted less than a minute,_ _but a second was enough to Kain to fall in despair._ _Off all things done for the sake of his people, who faded away from the material world in an instant, whose time luged longer_ _as the attempt of a_ _shout failed, to later be drained into the tears of a desperate soul as Kain._

_The sky became from the orange who once emanated into each of the candles the Bulus carried over as the ties on their tails, the same Kain still possessed, until that moment, when_ _red as the blood were painted over its entirety._ _Siegfried, like many of the others, had no words left to say, the same for the Red Masks who stranged of such feeling they felt, a remnant of their past scattered long ago. Frigg knew of such, and even went for such kind, alike Gizamaluk, who tried his best to comfort the one he called by father since that fateful day, when they meet each one another on that same fountain belonging to Kilde, spouting of the water that boy, only his,_ _once looked throught it,_ _and now, he sees himself flowing as the tears of Kain. His father, the same one who gave him a value, a reason to live for years, now felt worthless in minutes._

_Frigg watched over Kain, in_ _comtempt for the one who caused it._ _It was all my fault, she said with such affirmation._ _Had I been attentive to the words of Necro, his plan, his frustation, his power, his insanity..._ _this wouldn't happen._ _Frigg pretended she could blame herself, to redirect the pain felt by Kain into her, on the way similar to how her son felt after that day, ill in a cage, surrounded by the cells of Klaire and Frigg's given orders._ _To staunch the bleeding one by allowing herself to be the one who's bleeding most; did Frigg felt better, or worse, it didn't mattered. Did Gareth felt the same way since that day, before he left her alone as the beginning of that life she was forced to live into the Mist... That's when Frigg_ _pointed to Kain her finger to the Mist, and said to him that there were still people, his and her people, whom he needed to guide into this land Bahamut promised._

_Anything was better than nothing, and it was time for the Vastitas to stop seeking the destruction, the nothing, over the order, a peace for each of their minds lead this way. That's what Frigg thought, and maybe Kain. Sitting still on his own, even with Siegfried, Gizamaluk and Frigg on his side,_ _Kain stood quiet, and still on his focus._ _That was just a battle, he thought,_ _but the war didn't settled the score of the winner yet. But, as many of the battles fought, the price had a cost, a weight to bear. Could he bear such weight? Yes,_ _but the aftertaste remained, no matter the time, or the erasure of such event by history. And Kain was tired, exhausted of the days spent beyond the doors of Yashar, below the Mist, over the nearest mountains, befriending new people..._ _it was such a journey that lasted, Kain agreed. But it was yet to be over._

_Survivors. The world rang on all ears._ _Berkana, the priestess of Kilde, came running, alongside a group of Black Masks_ _to the cracked vestiges of what where once the doors of Klaire. Alongside her and the Black Masks, came a boy, whom Siegfried recognized. It was Baldwin, his younger brother, who seemed rather scared, yet with a look of serenity in his eyes. With his clothes ripped and marks of_ _minor injuries left by sharp objects hanged on by a body almost covered in by tones of black charcoal and gray ashes, Baldwin narrated to Siegfried of the events which happened before Atomos went to Bulu._ _Archibald, their father, went to Bulu before that beast came to destroy, as he kept his brother to take care of their family, who went away from there by a presentiment of misfortune felt by the same one who decided to return to Bulu. Unlike father, Baldwin felt of another_ _prognostic, who told him to return to the same place as his father once was._

_Was... Siegfried heard such word, and said nothing, because he already knew what happened._ _On his own, Baldwin went to Bulu, and could not find his father, or part of what once was Bulu. Archibald, as Ekkehard,_ _fought until the end, the iminent one. Without father, the one who had remained of the family where Siegfried and Baldwin. Two went away into distance, and only one was left, as many of the people who were alive. As a Highwind, it was Baldwin's task to_ _to keep on the continuity of the last member of the family, who_ _secure of the remaining lives for the sake of his own._ _As a Highwind, even young, he never awaited to stand still while everything went moving._ _This, Siegfried understood briefly since infant, and_ _after these days he planned the rebellion and made new friends, that matter became well understood._

_When told of the situation of the ones Baldwin saved,_ _confidence filled in Kain once again, but he already_ _overwrought himself too much. Even knowing the aftermath of the lives of Bulu, he couldn't think of anyone else, besides the one who he thought to be lost forever. Many of his neighbors were there, but she wasn't. Then, from the inside of the crowd, a voice of an familiar travelled into the barrier of shouts. Kain recognized of such in an instant. From there, came Lucrecia, his first love, still holding of his son, Nate._ _The reunion brought tears into Kain's eyes, who thought the worse happened to his wife and son. Fortunately, they were alive, and both were filled in by many stories to tell._

_From the day Kain went away to fullfill of Bahamut's wish and onwards, Nate learned of many things, as Lucrecia told._ _He learned to slowly see the world on his own, as his eyes bare of the sunlight in a few steps he was also still learning to do. Even without Kain, Nate was there for his mother, and Lucrecia was there for her son. Days passed, and that infant learned more of the world, and other feelings. He spend his days on a happier mood, but when night came,_ _Nate cried to be given a cuddle. When that baby opened his eyes on a morning, he saw another side of such world he lived with mother._ _Still young to understand, but able to see he was, and still he would be. Kain looked at Nate, who looked back at father, and said to him that_ _they would, one day, see a new world, given by Bahamut as that same child were given in to his. Children, because Gizamaluk would never be forgotten by Kain since that day._

_With the support of both Black Masks and Red Masks allied with them, Kain and the party planned to take down Necro, but before they could infiltrate his castle, destroy each poppy seeds or find his life were the main objective. Without the 'Drive', there would be no power for the infantry, and without his life, Necro was nothing more than a corpse hanging on a throne._ _Kain deiced to stay with Lucrecia to take care of the ones who survived at Klaire and Kilde, while Frigg and Siegfried would find out where Necro kept his life. They had no hints, until Berkana told them his_ _life were hid underneath the sea of Leviathan. Berkana knew about Necro's life because they were once acquaintances. What Berkana felt for Necro lasted a_ _long ago,_ _as told by the vivid colors shown by Berkana, unlike the pale of the one who stood with the Mist, the one who refused to accept his destiny, and to have a trust unreachable by anyone._

_Siegfried decided to not go with Frigg, because he_ _had a matter to do. Like Kain and his family, he decided to stay at Klaire and Kilde, to treat of the wounds belonging to the ones he injured, some injured by the tip of his weapon, and others injured by the fault of his when they needed him most._ _Instead of going in search of Necro's life,_ _Siegfried went in search of what his life meant. To harm others, he felt himself as Necro, but unlike his, he felt compassion for those whom his blade harmed, victims of the oppresion of Necro and the ideals carried with their later Kings and Emperors._ _The Vastitas were no more his enemies, only Necro, the one who indirectly had done the killing of Ekkehard, his father, and his people, the people of Bulu and the new people who the Vastitas pretended to change into. On support for the cause, Siegfried_ _gave to Frigg his Chocobo, and to Baldwin, who followed her as Gizamaluk, the Durandal, his sword, were given in._ _As told by Kain, that sword had something to do with taking Necro's life to an end, presumably he hid it underneath a rock. Only the sword of the Highwind, the one passed down to father to son to brother,_ _would tell. As Frigg, Gizamaluk and Baldwin went away to the sea over that Chocobo, the Black and Red Masks went into the Mist._

_Within that day and the tomorrow, gone were the main plantations of the drug and the Vastitas who left, on such ways. Those who defended the same were either convinced by the words of change; the stubborn ones rather fought the ones who once fought alongside they, and the ones remaining of the aftermath were few who allied with the enemy, now saw as the victorious ones._ _In result, with the gathering of forces, as the 6 Demiurges felt in misery, only one remained, and it was the King of all of them._

_From the moment The Red and Black Masks as one stepped into Grignard. Frigg, Gizamaluk and Baldwin went to the nearest shoreline._ _Frigg called upon Leviathan, the God who ruled over the waters below the sky of Bahamut, and demanded of the God's will to open a hollow filled with air into his domain. At first, Leviathan, who appeared physically as a colossal sea serpent,_ _refused to do what the lady told to his, but after listening to her words about the life of Necro being hid below his sea,_ _Leviathan obeyed, as he immersed into his watery land to allow a hollow to be made and sustained by his coiled tail. Frigg and those who followed her came walking across the lands once covered by the blue of the salt sea, searching for that rock where Necro kept the candle of his life. Near that space filled in by the atmosphere, lied the place where Hades forged of its weapons._

_Hades, the one who gave the power of every weapon Necro took from him, and used on his own sake... wasn't Hades the one responsible for all the problem kept along these years before and when Necro came? Thought Frigg, but that wasn't the time. Now, the_ _only power they needed at such moment was the one belonging to the Highwinds for generations. When the suspicious stone was found, Baldwin took the Durandal out of its sheath, and as it tip shined when ergued by his both arms, he let it fall above that rock. It would be all over for Necro, if it wasn't for the way he found to secure even more his life, the tip, as the entirety of the blade carried by the Highwind, would not be broke._ _The Durandal could break the stone, but not the egg found inside._

_As Necro felt his life in danger from his palace at Grignard, more of his followers came to fight and put an end to what he thought to be another uprising against his. Meanwhile, with the Durandal gone, what were Frigg, Gizamaluk and Baldwin supposed to do? There were no time for thinking, only action._ _On the way they followed into the narrow corridor made by Leviathan, they decided to go into Hades hideout, to seek for a weapon capable of breaking such egg, whom Gizamaluk holded. The candle still inside the egg illuminated their way into the underground grotto, where the weapon synthetizer lied within. Hades grated their presence, meaning only a few ones could gather in that place, or even know about it, but before those people could became his clients, Hades fought against them. After a fierciful and what seemed to be another meaningless conflict, Frigg won against Hades, and became another of his clients._

_When asked by the forger, all Frigg needed was a weapon able to break the last seal, the shell of the egg harder than any rock of Gaia, so she could take away the life of Necro, one of the other few of the clients of Hades who attained that same location._ _Hades confessed to Frigg that he, as her, share of a same hatred against Necro, but no matter the hatred towards that person, he was still his client. The decisions taken by his clients implied certain consequences, that were meant to be taken by his clients and only. He never planned to kill one of his clients, but instead, Hades led others to do what they were meant to do. Another client of his or anyone that's the 'other' of Hades could kill one of the clients, such as Necro, and resolve of this matter at once, being the only way Hades could interfere is by following what he was supposed to do, to forge weapons by synthetizing items, such as gemstones, other weapons, pieces of cloth or something that has a value, personal or universal, and give it on the hands of his client and led him do whatever he's supposed to do, anything or nothing._

_Frigg agreed about the implications of the use of such weapon, and considered that each action is tied into a certain consequence. In fact,_ _she was the consequence born of the implication;_ _the means they used against her and many to became Vastitas justified of such act._ _Once again, Frigg looked at her scarf, and thought of what lied beneath it. A chill on the spine could be felt, it was natural to be felt._ _To reach such desired end for the pain of the childhood that still persisted over that tighted neck, Frigg was the only there to do what were meant to be done, for the sake of many who fought alongside her and many who are still fighting over distance._ _When Frigg showed Hades the Gungnir,_ _Hades recognized of such weapon in an instant._ _It was him who forged the same Gungnir Frigg holded, and Gareth used to. Hades asked to the one who holded of the spear if the power came from such weapon, which Frigg answered a single not._ _Frigg knew since_ _Gareth's true power lied not only on the Gungnir, but instead on a thing Frigg never had the will to attain, a thing she had_ _, even if by a little, that someday would reach its plenty_ _: a heart._

_Without Gareth's power, Hades would do nothing to improve the Gungnir._ _For him, according to Frigg, his power died within him, and Hades neeced of such power to forge that weapon so it could be able to break the egg where the candle of Necro persisted. It was then that Frigg realized Gareth's power_ _still lied on another self, she could feel it. That same power lied within that boy of her, Gizamaluk, who claimed to his mother that he wasn't worthy enough._ _He tried to end with his own life two times, and even if he had of his father's power, it wasn't able to suffice on a satisfactory way. Frigg came near her son and told him that_ _no one was pure. Each one is made of failures, weaknesses, but as one. Frigg cut a strand of Gizamaluk's hair, as she had done with her own, and said that_ _as long as they stood together, like the hair of both, everything would went well._

_Gizamaluk saw on Frigg the eyes of Kain, and agreed on what she said. The one who saved him that day, Kain, wasn't perfect either. No one was meant to be. By being imperfects, by having problems, those things would not seem to dissapear and become unnoticed, if it wasn't for the other. Co-dependancy is something contrary to co-existence. If you exist, then another does, for the sake of taking away your problems by sharing of their ones, same as yours or not. The Vastitas kept their problems to never be resolved, the turmoil buried into their souls trembled into days, months, years, centuries. They way found for such turmoil to be released was to spread such into new life. Frigg never wanted her inner turmoils to fall like a landslide into her son, the son of Gareth, the true new life hard to be found into the domain of the Vastitas. Instead, Frigg wanted something other than violence_ _to be shared and assimilated into her son, a something that could only be found on another place._

_This another place, the place Gareth belonged, Kain belonged, and where Frigg wished herself and her people to belong... was near. By combining both her and the son's hair to be synthetized with the Gungnir, Hades forged of a weapon that carried on the power of Gareth, his trust for Frigg, who trusted in Gizamaluk's life since the day he was born, and thus he created the first_ _Dragon's Hair. Told to be the 'divider of Heaven', the spear known as the Dragon's Hair was the last hope to be found for Frigg, Gizamaluk, and those who went alongside her way. Carrying of such spear, Frigg and those who followed her all the way into the lands of the sea and Hades, went outside of its grotto, and before the sea sustained by Leviathan could swallow themselves, the Dragon's Hair, holded together by Frigg, her son and Baldwin, whose sword would never come back, but his will as Highwind was still there within him, broke the egg released into thin air, and blew the candle. The life of Necro... was over._

_Some say that, when the war of Grignard was over, and Necro felt to never walk again, the soldiers of Necro tied his legs with the ones belonging to Siegfreid Chocobo's, who ran in circles around the destroyed palace,_ _dragging the body of the deceased King of Vastitas, the last one. The remaining people who were still at Grignard followed and fled from the ruins to go along the ones who won against Necro. Those ones needed to follow someone, to live somewhere, and there was only a place to go. Days passed, and a village was found by Kain, the new leader dicted by his people, and his allies, who lived on the houses built below the clouds of the wet lands blessed by Bahamut with the eternal rain, a sign of no more wars against his own people._ _In homage to his wife, Kain named his newfound kingdom with her name. And so, this land became The Kingdom of Lucrecia, whose name became Bulumecia after Kain's demise, later renamed as Burmecia, after the spelling reform came in Year 1100, and since them, Kain's descendants and those who follow of his way of world ruled over this land for centuries..._

...

— ...And that's all, my Prince.

— ...

— ...My Prince?...

— ...zzz...ZZZ...zzz...

— ...Very well. Have a good night, Gabriel.

— ...

...

— ...Good night, Sig... zzz...zzzzz...


	15. Alberto Balsalm

[♫Aphex Twin - Alberto Balsalm♫](https://youtu.be/mUT3KoxVzQg)

* * *

**July 01, 1778**

**...**

_**...CRACK!** _

— _Gotchaaa!_

My cousin Dan shouted, as if he wanted someone other than his to hear his voice, and see what he had done. Many of us would do the same, even me. Look at that Basilisk. He, no, it is more accurate, is bleeding. I heard a cracking sound, so it must have reached the bone of the head. It's something we do not do for pleasure, but a thing called 'responsibility', or another excuse that sounds like the same word. Good; _very_ good.

— Your turn Jack – Dan said, after he went next to the murdered creature and went near me, holding of the same rock with the same hand he used to threw that pointy rock over it, stained of the same red of it.

— No, thanks – I looked to my feet and I saw a whole lot of worms in the soaked ground, who went swimming. Distracted, without looking upon his face, I had to say something, at least. — Go for it yourself, Gappys – then he went away, and I followed him from behind, to find some Basilisks and their nests.

Well, about the worms... From below the grass they came in, writhing and twitching as my tail. When there's clouds, there's plenty of worms, and when there is, rarely or almost never, a shard of the sun from a hole in the sky, they seem to burn, as they twitch and writhe more and more. That's why worms usually live in the soil. There's no sun beneath the ground, I guess, as much there is no sun underwater, or there is the sun at the dusk. Unless you made a hole at suchs, maybe there could be a sunlight to be seem.

With many worms, what else to do than eat them? Eat is better than be eaten, isn't it? There are people in this world that can eat anything, like worms can eat the soil, but I can't. I can't eat the dirt of the ground as these worms do, and I can't eat bricks, woods, ashes, coca leaves... I am forced to eat things that I don't like and forced to not eat things that I like, and forced to not eat things that can't be eaten. Forced to wear clothes that fit with my height, bless the old with a pair of hands, take a bath each time I am covered of the same dirt these worms roll into, sleep when the clock ticks XX with the little arrow and VI with the large one, as if worms do sleep without a pair of eyes. They do have eyes, do they? I don't know, and I don't care.

Babies do have eyes, but for some reason they can't see, so why can I see if I was a baby, and if worms had been blind like babies before, then why they can't carry on an eye? Babies do have teeth, but for some reason they can't eat without turning the table into a mess, so why I am not allowed to do the same, like the worms, who do not have such a thing as a table to be feeded? Babies poop whenever and wherever they want, so why do I had been taught to only do my priorities on a thing called bathroom? Can't I just open a hole in the ground and do it, for the sake of my necessities to be freed from my body, and for the sake of the worms, who need to be feeded from the waste of anything?

Worms... They look so pathetic, insignificants, I thought, when I was about to step over them. My nails can cut them in a half, there'll be no pain, does a worm bleeds like a Basilisk?... No. This doesn't feel right. In the end, they bleed as much as me. Rain falls upon everything here at Burmecia. Even above the dead, when I saw the body of those Basilisks Gappys killed with a single rock. Every life has a valour, no matter how insignificant it comes to look, daddy once said. I wonder if such words are allowed to be taken when it comes to Basilisks. They are a plague, they are meant to be killed. From worms to them, I just take the first, but now I think about it, from the instant I went following Gappys to another place besides his house.

We are the worms that stand below these clouds, daddy would say, or maybe he said. I don't know what it means, but it seems important. Maybe I'll understand, or maybe I'll never be able to do. Some people spend their lifes without learning nothing, and like worms, they stand below others, and they feel fine. Some people who are worms stand below the others above the soil, and when they come to see the light, they painfully burn and return to where they lived sitting still all along. Some are worms who act as a bait for the ones called as fishes, and a few worms are willing to be given and be eaten by the fish we know as Bahamut, thought some say he is a dragon, but I, like many, doubt it, and never we had been punished of thinking this way. That he's a god, sure he is. Is Bahamut 'he', or 'her', this I and us don't know for sure. Maybe both.

As I know, Daddy ain't such a person that fits with thoses. He's kinda of unique, or maybe he's the one who was the first to step from beyond the shadows. Daddy, please forgive me, but you more likely is a scarecrow, for the silent kept on that sewed mouth of yours. I'm kinda like him, uncle Clyde once said. There are things better kept locked than released, like a box full of pins that once felt on the ground... Ouch! I remember it. The pain over my butt, and how it lasted that day. See? I thought of 'butt' instead of saying 'butt', thought, butt is more appropiate than 'ass', or the same followed by 'hollow', or something so. Ouch! Not again! Other pain that I once felt in one of these days...

Daddy would never say of such words. To think, we are allowed, but to say, we must think first. It becomes unfunny for all the boys to keep saying 'shit' or 'dick' everytime. It just... doesn't work. At first, it's cool, but then... it gets old, until a month passes. Then, everything stars again. Over and over. Over and over. Over and over...

— ...Jack? Jack? – I heard a voice, and there was Dan, in front of me. No, no, that was before. Yes, Dan... Now, Dan, the 'Gappys', stood above me, he always though to have been there, but for real he stood above me and everything, on a place where the breeze kept pushing his hair and clothes backwards of his – Are you alright, Jack? – he said, looking over me. I was looking at a rock instead, and only my ears were all to his words, for a moment.

— Of course I am – you jerk. – Don't bother, this Jack here is fine.

— Jack, I know you are lying. – Gappys looked over me. Then, I looked back. I saw those eyes before, the eyes of his looked alike daddy's. – Come on Jack. Keep it up with me. You'd never been afraid all this time to climb, don't you? _Even_ here?

I said nothing. Like before, nothing else came from my closed mouth, except my breath, whom my nose took care of as I climbed to where Gappys was. It's easy to crawl over the walls when you're a burmecian kid born with those sharp nais. That place... seemed familiar, and of course it was. Jack, this is your house, and once again you made in there. In front of me, I can see as many houses with the same shape of bell as mine, and from behind me, I can see the outskirts of the city, and the palace, bigger than my house.

I and Dan live here, at the countryside. It seems more peaceful, to compare this place with the market around the city. This and that place are both part of the same kingdom, yet they are so vague in a similarity. The only thing that resides in there that resembles the city are the people. While Lennie and some other adults went in there, we kids stood in there, to be taken care by the mothers, a few dads at the neighborhood who stood at home, by the maids who were mostly there on our birth, any adult is doing the best to take care of the children of his and the children of others. In the end, we're all siblings and cousins of the rain.

My house, there I was. Usually, I prefer to stay outside, because it's boring, boring like the gray color, the same one we carry on with us. That's why we wear clothes, I guess, because it would be truly boring to see grey each day, as if the clouds and houses were enough. Some colors seem funny, like this green of my and Gappys's clothes. Daddy used to wear green and maybe still he wore it, beneath the thick and cold armor given to his. Lennie seems to wear green, but that ain't green. Inside and outside, these houses we live are grey, and cold, and dark, but when you paint then, and put the orange of the fire in the fireplace, you should be able to see and feel the heat, or else, you turn like gray forever, like gramps.

No, he didn't become gray at home. He was outside home, like me and Gappys, yet so near of it, like us as well. Daddy said that gramps became the candle of a fire; 'you can blow a candle, but you can't blow the fire', maybe he said it, or maybe someone else standing there next to his coffin, I wonder. Whew...

— What's the deal, Jack? – I heard Dan, who sitted near me, above the ceiling of my home.

— Nothing new, Dan. – I said and this only. Dan understood, and remained on his own, like his finger remained inside his nose. I'm kinda of anxious these days. Distracted as well, as I saw that finger of Dan on the ear of his. A lot of expectations keep gathering over me, like the potential diseases Dan is about to gather as he sticks that nail belonging to same finger of before into his mouth. At least, he spited those pieces of nail out of the nail cutter of his, the teeth who remained still over his jaw, instead of sucking then together with the wax and snot taken from the inside of his. From inside of Dan, they came outside of his, and then they came back to where they belong, on the way found by his owner.

Cleansing or bad behavior, who cares, if there's no adults to catch us on the act? Well, I wish they could, like daddy. Dan seems more happy, even with uncle Clyde away of his. I wish I could be happy like him... Each time Dan smiles, everyone near his can se the huge, huge gap beneath his front teeth, those from the up and from the bottom, and now that almost all of his teeth felt, it became more easier and less harder to not miss such. That's the reason why I call him by 'Gappys' sometimes, when we are on our own. I would never call Dan by this way on public, maybe because he would be ashamed of his own. Gappys is supposed to be a funny way I found to make fun of Dan, a rather childish one, but I am a child, after all. But I know an attempt to make fun of him with many, who do not understand what is funny, would result in the fun that Dan carry on to be gone, and more of the same unhappy, unworthy feeling to fill in within me later.

These days _._.. No only me, but he, she, we, they... everyone who stood like this afternoon feels the same, a lot of the same I feel. The sun keeps shining above us, yet we rarely see it on the glory of his, as rare is the grayish sepia of this hour. We are tired of seeing grey each day, so as they say, Bahamut change the color of the sky. Only a few spots of sun can be seem, and felt, unlike this pain. I feel pain, like everyone, then I feel nothing, like eveything. When there's a lot, I can't do anything. It's like someone dumped the sand of a desert over me and I can't get out, it's something alike. It has been almost a full week since daddy and the others I don't know, except for a maybe few, went away from home. So, I'm just quiet there, on my own, even with Dan along the way of mine. He's on his own way as well, and I just stumbled across his, like he did with mine. Why, daddy? How and what am I supposed to do without _him_? Without _you_...

Daddy.

Some call him by 'Bart', others went into a full 'Bartholomew', I once heard a 'Brandford' being spoken, but I call him by daddy. I used to call him by 'pappy', thought I don't recall such thing. Now, it's all up to me. That's what dad would say. No, he once said it, before he left to the world outside. But he ain't here to say it no more. Even if he was, he would say nothing. But his presence, at least, mattered. I know my daddy won't come back soon. Lennie is doing the best she can to take care of me, but... why?

Ever since I was a baby, if I can, at least, recall it, since it was such a long time ago... yeah, right. Since I was a little baby, I felt daddy's more than my mom's. No, I felt mom once... this one who stands here is 'Lennie'. Some call her by 'Lenna', others went into a full 'Lenneth' and many times I heard 'Crescent' being spoken by those on her way. Why, Lennie?... as mother, she calls my daddy by 'husband', or 'Bart', like anyone else. And that's what Lennie is. Daddy can't find for himself Lennie's been lying, and he still believes she's my mom. Guess he was fooled by the bait of Lennie, her disguise as both my mother and a woman.

— Girl, woman... it's all the same, like a seed is a plant that's supposed to grown up – I said, and I am able to see a kind of truth in his words. Dan... he doesn't give me a damn for what am I talking, does he? I don't care. No, I care. – Hey Dan, I wouldn't mind to tell more about Lennie. You see, I once saw her without any undies...

— ...Really? – Dan raised his snout, then I felt the quick movement of the wind when the neck of his turned his fance and hat to me; the same quickness returned, to be released into the slap of my hand over his face. Gappys's cheek turned in a red more colorful than the one from before. I hope I didn't broke another tooth of his. Please, just a tooth...

— Gotcha! – you idiot. Thought, to be fair, I once saw Lennie this way, the way she came. Daddy too, and so me. That bodysnatcher... Lennie kept the same body as mom. She once saw and still see me without a piece of cloth as well, so we are even-steven, I guess? Whatever, it's not of my interest. Adult heads work different than ours; sometimes, uncle Clyde tell some things to daddy that only makes sense on his head. To think they once were children as we...

I told Dan more about Lennie. For some reason, he likes her. Now he sure is listening to me, isn't he?

— I never allowed anyone to touch my sensitive area – I told him. – Besides me, and mom, no one else to lay a hand in there when I took a bath. Daddy has his own, so why we would bother? But Lennie... Yes, Lennie. She dared to touch it. By each time I take a bath, she does it. I can do it on my own, so why the need of such thing? Does Lennie think I just kinda of 'forget' to clean my entire body?

— ...Heh he – Gappys laughed, and gently showed off the gap of his teeth. Now it was his turn to make fun of me, and I am somehow glad to see it. – We're lucky to have of such opportunity. My dad told me that most Alexandrian and Lindbluniam boys rarely take a bath.

— Yeah. Uncle Clyde told me the same thing. Isn't he funny?

— Yeah, sometimes he is. I guess only he can understand what he's talking about... Why do you ask?

— Nothing. Just nothing...

Daniel Brandford, or Dan in a short, sometimes spoken as Danny by his father and only... that's one of my many cousins, the only one who seems to be near me, and be allowed to stay in such way. The expressions of his change with a word given by another, with an intention or without it. Does he is more happier than me? He seems so. Thought, I can see Dan is suffering as well. He is laughing now, I made him laugh, but I wonder what he does when he's not with me, or when he is alone. Sure, his mother is there with him, but when she is not? Brothers don't usually stay together. When babies, they are attached within each other on the only crib, but when they grown up, the division begins, alike the multiplication, the addition and the consequent subtraction of a family member.

And I know of such thing even without growing up with a brother, as I thought once. Lennie... Is it truly her fault to desconsiderate me as her son? W-what am I saying? Is Lennie... my mother? No way! No way, no way, no way... Mother would never spend more time to carry on a spear instead of her; mother would never feed me with the tip of that thing, so I can become the next Dragoon; mother would never force me to be a Crescent like she was; mother would never leave me alone, but Lennie...

_Sob..._

— Jack? – Dan noticed it. It came from my eyes, and it dissapeared into the rain – what's the matter, Jack? Your father is bothering you, isn't it? – Dan seemed to know what I felt, but he was too away from the truth be told.

— Not exactly my daddy, but the fault of his costed too much for me – I said... weeping like a willow. – what exactly bothers me is Lennie. You see, mom was the one who truly carried me all along inside her, that's the truth. This Lennie just came in there to take her place. Other than Lennie, that javelin... also bothers me. You know, there's a tradition around Lennie's, no, mom's family. Her mother, my grandma, used to feed her since she was a baby with the tip of her javelin, so she could became someday a stronger Dragoon Knight. I admit... it would be kinda cool to become one, but... it doesn't matter...

— ...Why!? – Dan exclaimed. For a while, he stood quiet alike many times I talked to him. I caught him by surprise this time.

— I already said... it doesn't matter. Anymore.

Now I see why of the shock...

To have such opportunity, to be born as a Crescent, a family of Dragoon Knights who came before me, and now I just left such thing hanging over a tree. But I had my reasons, my prospects, like daddy has his own, and even Lennie has her own kind. Lennie... Would she care about me? Would she rather leave that spear in the corner instead of me? Would she even care if I cried for too long? Would anyone bother if I led myself dissapear into tears like an ugly Squonk in front of all? Lennie went carrying on a spear instead of me, _as if she only cared... about that... javelin... than... me. Sob..._ I don't wanna be a Dragoon Knight. Althought it would be cool, I... _sob..._ just can't. _Sniff..._

To be fair, without daddy, and without mom, there would be no Jack. Thought, there are many Jacks around this place. I am another one of those Jacks. A common name given here and there, Jack means nothing more than 'mass'. Everyone, or mostly the people are Jacks, or Johns, for the boys. Only a few name stand out of the box for us, like Daniel, Bartholomew, or Clyde. I don't know what names they gave in to the girls. Merida? Brunhild? Or maybe Lenneth? Lenneth... my mom and only. Lennie thought she could take her name because it was unique like mom was to me. How dirty was and still is that trick of the tail. These girls, and their dolls, have by far more variety of names and ways to fool another than me, a single Jack around the neighborhood of, I guess, twenty Jacks?

Man, what does I do to stand out of these Jacks there? I am a troublemaker, like many, thought my reputation doesn't stand oout of the others with same name. They only hit you until you cry, but for me who's already crying, they keep kicking in, as this name given to me. Jack... how and I supposed to become unique? 'Jack, the Brave?' No, that's impossible. 'Jack, the milkman?' Maybe. And what about... 'Jack, the Dragoon Knight!'... No, it sounds the same as 'the Brave' one. What if, one of these days, I accidentaly cutted my feet with the tip of that spear? Or worse, if the tip got stuck on my feet? Sheesh...

I don't even know if people should call me by Jack 'Brandford' or Jack 'Crescent'. Heck, _even_ Daniel is known as 'Brandford', so why don't I? This tie on my tail says I'm a 'Cr', a Crescent, but the one who wrote it was also a Crescent... My mom. Daddy, who's a 'Brandford', married with a 'Crescent'. The Crescents have a role, an important one with history, or so they say. The Crescents who became Dragoon Knights, in a single sentence. No Crescent that became a milkman is remembered, or maybe they was when alive. I don't know the difference between a Dragoon Knight and a Major, but they do sound important. Gramps was a famous Major, and still he is. Daddy doesn't seems to be the same as gramps; thought I never saw that man alive, only a statue of his and what daddy told to me.

Daddy could have choose another name, like his own, on the same way as gramps choose the name of his to be daddy's, but instead he decided my name to be Jack. Daddy... did you choose my name to be Jack so I could find for myself how do I stand from the rest? Brandford or Crescent, I am Jack, I guess. No, I don't guess, I believe I am Jack, and I can find for myself something that makes me stand from the rest. You have my word, even if you can't hear it, daddy.

Now, talking about names... Lennie. You can't fool me, Lennie. _You... just... can't..._ She thinks as important as mom was, doesn't she? Daddy has no valour then? Respect is the thing I can't find over the deceptive Lennie. No, respect do I have for her, in a way. Even if Lennie is not my mom, she's still a lady, isn't she? Now that I feel slightly fine, I told Dan more about the current situation of Lennie. She looks different this day. I would say she became from a stranger to fatter, but that would be kinda offensive, even if I had the will to say so. Daddy said to me every women is meant to be treated like a lady, the same for uncle Clyde. Of course, daddy and Clyde never told me about what I can't think about, just what I can't show into words. So, if I told to Lennie all what I think about her, and I wished I could, then I would be losing of father's trust and confidence in me. This... I can't lose. I already lost my mom, and I can't lose daddy.

— Lennie... She pretends to force me into say such words, ain't I right? How deceiving. Mom was not this way.

— 'Fatter'?... What do you mean by it, Jack? – Dan looked over me. He had the doubts, as much as I once had. Well, I had then, until yesterday.

— Don't you see it, Dan? Lennie is carrying on... – I paused briefy, as if the breath of mine ceased, words had been eaten, like before when Lennie hurled with everything in a bowl, and said in full sentence after, with certainty in her eyes, that I got – a little brother.

— WHAT!? Gappys raised atop the ceiling of my house, as a face full of the joy filled in the gaps of his smile. –Whoa, Jack! My thanks for ya! – he said, holding my hand to congratulate.

Thanks... but for what, Dan? Shouldn't you have been congratulating Lennie instead? What does I have to do with such thing? And Lennie... why, Lennie? Yes. you are carrying on my little brother, on the same way mom carried me. Does that mean something? Yes, it does. Daddy once told me that when two rats, one male like him, and a female like mom love each other so well, they have children. How does one get inside the female one, I don't know. Dan says he does, but I don't believe in most of the things that found a way to exit into such gaps. _...yall!..._ Daddy loves Lennie, as he loved mom. He knows mom will never come back, and so he believes Lennie is alike mom, Lenneth, does he? Only because Lennie is a female that he got into her pants, as Dan once told me, and still I don't know what the heck he was talking about. _...yall!..._ You don't believe in daddy, don't you, Lennie? Won't he return? Will you give the baby his name if he doesn't? _...Hiyall!..._ Lennie... you may be the mom of my brother, but you aren't my mom. You...

_— ...Hey! Hey! Hey!..._

— Huh? – I heard someone, or something. A voice of a kid. – did you said something, Dan?

_— H-I-Y-O-U-A-L-L._

Oh... _there_ it was. It wasn't Dan, but a kid below us. In full letters, for the last time he repeated the way he found to caught our attention. He wanted it, and insisted, and got it somehow. Kinda irritating, but effective. And yes, it was a he. Boys usually go outside to play, while girls play with each other inside their shelters. Whereas Dan looks awfully the same as me, that boy seemed to not be me. A boy wearing green, like many, and as soon as we approached his, descending the ceiling we climbed onto, we saw his self.

— Hi – he said, after all he passed throught to call our attention. A single 'hi' was enough. Younger than me, and Dan, we shared of same height, or was it the hat, mine or maybe his. Same hat, but the flaxen was on his hair, instead of the yellow near the laurel of mine and Dan. Sharing of a smile, green eyes like ours fixed at us, waving arms and slightly releasing his knees, to the front and back, back and front, as his tail went to left to right, right to left... How anxious he was to see us and talk with us. That 'hi' greated, followed of a same smile of anticipation, and both eyes open wide enough to clearly see us said such. I and Dan didn't know who he was, neither he knew who we were. He had a 'Hw' on the tie of his tail, as much as Dan had a 'Brd' on his and I had a 'Cr' on mine. I wondered what does that meant...

— Hi there – Dan said, when I was there, thinking about the meaning of 'Hw'. He touched the hat of that boy, slightly tapping the head of his, three times, and still the boy shared of same smile, as his eyes went closed on those seconds, and opened once again, to stare at us. He wasn't afraid, like many would, but instead, he stood there, with a serenity hard to be found on children of our and his age. – What's your name, boy?

— My name... – the boy stood quiet for a moment, like his legs and the tail of his. The smile of his changed into an expression of doubt. Then, after some seconds we awaited like his, he took out his hat, and holded tightly with both his hands onto the same, now found above his chest, as he let some rain fall and pour over his hair. As the drips of water keept gathering on the top of his head and went into the tip of his now long strands, covering a lot of his face, yet we could see the eyes of his and the smile who once again made an appearance, as the name that boy was about to spell to us. – My name... I am... I am Fratley.

Oh, Fratley... There's no single Fratley I knew, only his, and I didn't knew him either. I don't know what does Fratley mean, but does seem unique. We asked more to Fratley about him, who he was, and so he did the same to us. We first asked his age, whom he replied, but before he could, first he shaked his body, letting all the rain felt upon his hair, whom he turned backwards of his, to be scattered on all directions near his, like us. We didn't mind, and what we only did was to stand there for an answer, as the hat of his came back to where it belonged once. It took a while to realize why in first place Fratley took out the hat of his, but now I know why. There are some folks, mainly adults, there that took out their hat, helms and kneel before someone, on a signal of respect.

That boy didn't kneel, but he took out the hat of his, even under the rain that increased a little now, to show some respect, if that was his intention. I don't know, maybe he just had done it because he saw someone do it, like his father, or someone else. I believe that he would do it anyway, wouldn't he? Quite... interesting of his part. Now, about his father... Dan asked whom Fratley father was, to which he replied by showing his tail, and the orange tied wrapped into it, the same with the 'Hw' initials, or as Fratley said, 'Highwind'. I recall I heard such name before, but I didn't cared about it. Now that we knew this Fratley was a Highwind, Dan came up with a next question, related to the age of that boy. To reply, he raised his right hand, and we could saw his fingers raised on same way, except for the thumb of his.

We counted one, two, three... Four. That was the age of his. Fratley, age 4, son of a Highwind... I guess it was all we need from his. After we finished, Fratley lead the same hand he used to show us his age to grab something hid on the pocket of his. There, lied a piece of cookie, a little crumbled, but still Fratley was able to eat most of it, as the rest turned into bran, that fled into the gap of his both hands covering the mouth of his. Still, I could say he was smiling, as his eyes told me. Closed or not, they told about his, even if he didn't know. Nothing could take away that smile of his, except the doubts he feel. In the end, to make amends with his was good, because he seemed to need it. He was both hungry and less anxious, now that we spoke with him, and he spoke with us on the way of his. Fratley had siblings, but like I mentioned before, they mostly don't seem to be with each other like friends, but rather a bond of blood is what makes then together.

— Well... bye, Fratley – I said, as I followed Dan to his house. As we went away, someone other than us followed us as well. It was that boy, the same Fratley from before. He just went along us, finished of his cookie, but not yet finished of our conversation.

— Hey, Fratley. Why you keep going with us? – I asked. Fratley kept something that he had no time to say, I knew it. After he went throught the process of cleaning his cloth of the remnants of the cookie eaten, he spoke to us.

— I... I didn't said bye yet. – he said. That was a good reason, for the boy who took out the hat of his in a plenty of rain. I felt, somehow, bad to leave him on his own. Dan as well. Sure, Fratley knew his way back home, and we forgot to say goodbye to him. No, saying goodbye wasn't the issue, but if that was supposed to be the last goodbye of ours to his. Oh my...

— Then why don't you say it now? – asked Dan. He didn't thought the same of me. We looked at Fratley, who stood still even when we blinked. He also blinked, faster than the common way, so maybe he could hid the eyes of his. His mouth become a horizontal line, like the ground we step in, but even the ground has curves, unlike the expression that kept still of his. One of his eyes were about to drop a tear, but when you're in the rain, you can't see a cry, but only hear a moan. I heard nothing that came under that hair onward to his face of his. The hair was the only part of Fratley that was allowed to move, not because of his, but of the breeze that came now, to refresh the drips felt like sweat above our skin, and the breath of his snot, because his mouth were kept closed.

— I... I... – Fratley said, or pretended to say. He couldn't, and had no way to say so. I knew how he felt, a bit, so I had to do something, because that's what really bothered Fratley. Not him, but me, a friend of his. I don't know how many friends does he have, but he seems to have not so many. Maybe he also misses his father, like I miss mine's. Dan also misses his father, but he does have someone other than his mother and brothers to be with beyond himself. But this Fratley... I don't even know who he is. I know Dan is my cousin, I gave him the nickname 'Gappys', but Fratley is just a silhouette of who he is. I only know he's four, has a father by the name Highwind, and eats cookies. Well, anyone can eat those, but that's what I knew about his, for now. Now, give him a chance, Jack...

— It... it's... because... Because you're other than me, and the nearest other I could find, besides mommy... – Fratley... Just look at the way he spells 'mommy' out of his mouth. He looks so confident, so filled in by the joy of saying such. Yet, he seems sad to be spelling in such way. He kinda of reminds me... I got no daddy and no mom. I'm the one in such worse situation to compare with his, but I feel that I am also the one who can help with his doubts. – So... so...

—...'Will we ever see each other again?' Is that what you were going to ask us? – Fratley looked upon me. Before, his chin and snout went on a crestfallen position, together with his hair and tail. Now that I said something, he listened and raised the head and the entirety of his fallen position, to look at where that voice came in. – This, I can't answer. Now, Frattie, ask for yourself: 'Will I see Dan and Jack tomorrow?' If you know the answer, then do something that say you choose the answer you seek.

Fratley heard me clearly, I knew he did. It took some time, a short one, for him to tell me his answer. His legs waved back and forth, his tail from left to right, and as usually he had done, like before, he opened his eyes to allow a stare, not a frightening one, but some kind that caught our attention on a way we agreed to be caught by such, and with the eyes wide open of his, came a curve for the line located below them. It was a smile, that smile who grated us once and now. Fratley needed no words to say which answer he choose. The only word he said was a 'bye', as he went away running and holding of that hat with the little hands as his.

Daddy... If Fratley can await for tomorrow, then so do I can. If I can't await for what will happen, I might get upset, so upset that I'll end up doing nothing, and all I want is anything. Anything but nothing awaits for me, and us. Mainly us.

**...**


	16. 5 8 6

[♫New Order - 5 8 6♫](https://youtu.be/wXl3Qej1tjM)

**June of Year 1778**

****

**...**

_...Car..._

CECIL: Am I an intruder? Maybe we are. Fear of the Absolute, I feel it as the movement of a wind blew onto the Northwest needle we follow as a troop. Phalanxs came first, followed by the armored chariots, whose wheels had been turned into legs and tiredness. But who is an intruder when the land we step upon once was ours? Once... that's the word that defines us as such. I know, as an intruder does, how to open a window, as much as the King knows and has the key, the transportation vehicle, to open the Melda Arch for us to travel into their arch, with disguises apart to deceive the Regency of -LINDBLUM-, the one who controls mostly of Aerbs and the engines that move such place, later at the dusk and the following night that came on the days before this month.

_...Scratch..._

CLYDE: Just the mention of the word -ALEXANDRIA- by commander Komakino is enough to make us, you, me move around in circles and call such act by 'training'. For these days, to hear the same 'Alexandria' be heard by that old fart, whose jaw can't eat anything, except the words he say, had been a pleasure to be enough filled into me and the others. The same are quiet as my brother and these soldiers, strict as the marriage of our country, and taste as well as salt water drank from the ocean itself.

_...Melt..._

PRESCOTT: It's hard to accept the truth as it is told by them. Pale it becomes for some, but for many, colors are achieved. Colors that bled as one red, the same meant to be sadly find on the tip of our swords and javelins. Was I meant to be there on first place? If I hadn't assigned that paper, sure this time would be well spent by me to take care of the living, the family of mine, the sons who never had to await for me than I and Sophia awaited for such time they arrived, instead of ending up the day awaiting for the reckoning of the lost souls of centuries, trading in to become ghosts raised from the ashes they turned into.

_...Security..._

BARTHOLOMEW: Lenneth, Jack... why do I care so much for both? Is it because they belong to -BURMECIA- as me? And what about this Alexandria I and my family had been fighting against? Do they also have a reason to fight with dignity against us? What they had done isn't what we do, is it? The same may go for our ancestors, who had done many that resulted into this nothing, about to come near us in a state of Trance... This is a crisis I knew I had to come, to fix such balance once kept broke. I wonder what will come next, besides a change of speed...

_**...** _

_**Day 26:** _

_**Resonance** _

_**...** _

CLYDE: What a pleasant time to feel alive. Sure, the ones who came before me must have thought of the same. I wonder if Komakino _ever_ felt alive. _That moribund_... Just look at the way he raises the sword up in the air with that dysfunctional and onion arm of his. With a skin alike his arm peeling each day, such is the pride of commander Komakino, and the devotion of something lost in the way more than the life of his. You may ergue the sword when there's us with you, but when you're alone, you slide like a snail, and wished you could die like one.

CECIL: ...The Melda Arch is the passage located at the side of our country northwest of Aerbs Hills, to which we used as a route of peaceful trade and revenue. But in this world, like many, peace is just a word we gave a misunderstood meaning, because there's no exactly way to achieve such. All we achieve is a certain stability, like the price in gil of the products sold by quantity. The more they are sold, more the price increases. It has been this way since ever we stood above the plateaus, unlike them. We trade in gold, gems, as they trade us silk, spice and coffee. The only thing that keeps Burmecia and Alexandria on the same spot is that we're dependant of commercial relationships, _and only._

CLYDE: ...You see, Marat took a bath, so why can't Komakino? Whereas we are far from home, a common misunderstanding of our part is that anyone, and anything, _can_ be Alexandria and their intentions as well, like an infection does have the intetion of hurting you.

PRESCOTT: A sailor told me once about citrics. Orange and other citric syrups guarantee the safety of our jaw and gums from scurvy. I hope that Fratley's teeth fallen don't expose much of his gums to such infections. _Exposed.._. for some reason, I recall of the days I stood in Lindblum and the time when I noticed the rain burning my skin. The rain of Burmecia never would do such a thing, but there, at Lindblum, it did. That kingdom is divided into three districts, being the Market District, the Theather District, and the Industrial District. They all sound alike one, but for me, they're the same, like the statues of the past Regents. There's a statue of Cid Fabool VII in the Industrial district, but you can only see it's him by reading what's below, in the words written in gold. From that district, smoke rises up in the air, and wherever it rains, that same rain can burn those who walk there for a long time, there or around other districts. Each time it rained, a frame of the face of Cid vanished, as if the rain had melted his. Now they changed the face of his for a silver helm, as a solution for the issue of the statue, but the issue of the people remained the same. At least, the Regent is safe.

CECIL: These hills are the cenotaph of Lord Aerbs and his sons, that came and ended like their own father. Aerbis and his descendants divided this continent, and its tribes those hills came across. Plateaus for the people Alexandria and the other Alexandria, the mass of Lindblum; and the wet plains below the Mist, were those beings from Burmecia learned to live. The experiment of Dali desired by our King will be done. Not that I desire it's fullfillment, but part of me agree on his orders. The part of being submissive stands out of the part that wants to raise a shout, to eat, to destroy the path I hang on, but not now. This second other shall be released, but not until we reach this Mist and the creatures that lie in there, so they'll never again trespass the plateaus where Alexander stood...

**...**

**_Day 27:_ **

**_Fusion_ **

**_..._ **

BARTHOLOMEW: More training... Because I am a male that I am in there. Dragoon Knights and us are worlds apart, thought we are still divided between the organs we had been born with. Male ones are called by -BAHAMUT-, whereas -LEVIATHAN- is the name choosen for the female ones. While Bahamut is the god that belongs to the blue of the sky, Leviathan is the god that keeps swimming in the blue ocean of the Gaia where it was created along the civilization. There are far more women than men at Burmecia, but only one seems to achieve the skies, as the other stands below as the ocean level stands at a constant zero...

PRESCOTT: I once travelled to Aerbs on foot. Unlike Lindblum, there's no easy acess to everyone. Thought, the Summit Station built atop the hills has such nice view, a view for the few, like the time I once saw a rainbow near the Burmecia Gate, when I came back from a stroll when I was in Lindblum. I wished I could bring my family as well, but I don't think they would. By they, I mean the circumstances of us outside the rain. On the station, there's a few of us, and few of what made us into us. The country of Burmecia is obscured by the map that shows the Aerbs as a whole, while Lindblum and Alexandria's, even Treno's maps are showed in a full state of a glory unreached for us, because of them, and mostly us hang on the fault. I wonder if Sophia could agree with me, but even the Chai we drank there is called by Burman coffee. _Coffee_!? Oh god... That may be just a word, and that's the problem. 'Coffee' is so common, so vulgar, unlike the bittersweetness of the 'Chai' dranked, slowly slurped by the tongue. But that's the way they see us, now I understand it. Our reputation, the reputation of many, and the same aftertaste carried on by centuries, alike the 'Burman coffee'...

CLYDE: Coincidences do not exist for me. Like Komakino does with the sword of his, Lindlbum showed themselves on that 'fateful' day. Yes, I'm thinking about what happened seven years ago. _That_ 1771 that 'changed Gaia forever'. Father, like many, many than now, fought against that Alexandria, this same Alexandria they speak about. Our current King, Edgar, got to sit in the throne of metal for the first time, as an adult, but that only happened after the ships came flying. Whoa... The sky outside Burmecia is blue like the ocean of Leviathan, and so Lindblum found a way to navigate on the domains of Bahamut, with the power of science, they say. Magic? No, science. This is what makes us so far away from others. We learn the basic of this science, their science. 1,2,3... and keep counting in. There's no end for such, like the many wars fought. Who initiated the war, who was the first who engaged a punch, and later got cut by the blade, it doesn't matter. If such science is effective, then why the shape of bells for our houses? They say it's because of tradition, and keep away the spirits... Traditions and science, they don't seem to have a tie.

BARTHOLOMEW: Yes, the war... the last before the 'revolution'. Many were fought, but for what intention? Airships from Lindblum came flying after a year they fought against one another. With the King of Alexandria dead in combat, or so do they say, reason enough was futile to finish some of us. Do they kill because that's their intention? Do we need to kill because it's our intention to avoid the realization of their intention? Who does avoid the achievement of others is inciting some kind of war? If Lindblum pretended to finish the conflict, then why some of we still stood like same?

PRESCOTT: There's no airships for us, only for they, the creators of such. Violence? When I once walked throught the Armory, I saw many javelins. Javelins of copper, javelins of iron, javelins of Mythrill... Spears of an ancient past, that became a remnant of now. Mostly they can't be used, but instead be showed. They stood and still stand like tombstones, covered by the dust gathered over the time. Are those the only relevants pieces of history that remained for Burmecia and it's people to share with the world? That's what I get, and that's what we got, like a mother is told to bring a son to the family.

CLYDE: ...Stupid people can believe in anything, and so you do believe in yourself too! Can you!?

**...**

_**Day 28:** _

_**Selection** _

_**...** _

CLYDE: I saw Paul today. To think Paul, the same rat boy who had stolen his father's cigars, had more to offer us. One of these past days, me, my siblings, Bart, Martin, Stuart, and our friend, Paul, were playing marbles outside the front door of our house. When evening came, it was time to say goodbye to Paul. One of his relatives then came to pick him up, for dinner. It wasn't Paul's father, or his older brother. It was a woman, dressed in the same costumes like any mother, but it wasn't his mother, not his aunt. Instead, Paul had an older sister who took care of him.

BARTHOLOMEW: ...I knew she were older than us at the moment Paul spoke her unforgettable name: Elizabeth. Sounded like my grandma's. A girl from chapel, devotee of Bahamut, like her mother. A beautiful one, whose delightful ebony hair as cinnamon waved at us. A lady to be respected, like any lady in this world. She loved children, and we loved her too. When we looked at her, she looked at us. Flatteries aside, when we belauded Liza's voice, at the same time austere as an elder, and sedate as the breathes of a siren, her radiant smile gently opened, the shadow beneath us dissolved like salt in clear water, followed by the mellowly touch of lips on our foreheads, one by one. Such honey lips of a passion-fruit blossom, syrupy than the combs of an entirety of a bee hive, and the slight faint touch of Venus in our shoulders. Damn you once again, Clyde. Althought she kissed us too, you were the first one in line.

PRESCOTT: Sophia... Before I became one with her, she was a devotee of Bahamut. The devotees of Bahamut are a religious group of people founded back in the 14th century. They believe Bahamut has the shape of a giant fish, who inhabits the clouds above Burmecia. These people are said to migrate from outside of Burmecia each month to do a procession at the land of our ancestors, the desert of Vube. There, they stay until seven days passes. And for another seven days, they stay at Burmecia, to purify their souls. They can't touch anyone until they take a bath at the river Kinneas, because that's where mostly the water, fallen by the rain and the mountain, between the fishes and other beings related to water, can be found. We, soldiers, are also devotees of Bahamut in a certain way, except that our souls are purified not by our god, but by history itself, and the flowers they someday will bring to us, and unfortunately, we can't smell such.

BARTHOLOMEW: A week passed, and nothing about Paul's sister could be heard. That day may had passed, and all my thoughts were directed or about about Paul's sister. In my head, I felt her, walking in the landscape of my dreams...

CLYDE: ...Like eels into a net, we followed , we saw her taking a bath. No cloths, no undies. Only the single way of world we followed before and after the birth, and the morals. With the ponytail off, her hair seemed longer, and the bends of her back... Geez, you haven't had enough, had you, Clyde? Thinking about these things is kinda relaxing... Don't get me wrong, Cynthia. First, you aren't here, and second, I was just a childish one. Was?...

BARTHOLOMEW: I don't known what happened to Liza. Maybe she passed away, like grandma, but now that I'm married, those thoughts don't bother me anymore. Because I trust in Lenneth, and she trust in me, and what do I feel for Lenneth is something more than what I felt as a kid for that woman. Something above the flesh. Beauty does fade away on a certain time, like the reality built around us, and I'll stay with Lenneth, even after that day where the reality of our comes into stories to be told by our descendants. I never imagined that her love could make me want to settle down.

_**...** _

_**Day 29:** _

_**Conception** _

_**...** _

PRESCOTT: ...I needed to be cleansed. How itch I was. Such thought never came into my mind. Breathe. Up the ladder, I saw the you once kept hid. Why hid for so long, Sophia? Desire? No, don't think this of me. Apologies for what your eyes seem to get from me. To see everything we build up crumble to dust... how many breaths had we attained in our single lifes? Something so trivial, isn't it? Rain is falling outside. Below the lonicera, when I'm on my own, winter kills. The aching of mine... ain't yours, but you felt it, didn't you? It was a question of time for the calling of the act. Instead of raising the curtains, we let them fall, as we become one, instead of two. There is time to kill, and nothing to lose. Nothing, except this love. This raw love. I died with you, on the instant I felt alive, and clean. The cleanest we've ever been. The cherry, to be scent by a child like me for the first time, soon withered. To find it, to accept of my love, and see it was now gone. I thought it was, but another child as me were born from you, and the love of ours.

CLYDE: After all this sessions of training, holding of this same javelin with a hand and another, all I want is to lick Cynthia's hair. Yes, I wannna. To hold tight those ears, hurl in the lake, end up in the skies, touch the star... Thought, last time I did it so, Danny was born. Kids. How do am I supposed to avoid such? When I saw Danny's face for the first time, it was as if I already saw the same face on his brothers before. He woke up from its sleep, and pulled a face like he sucked a lemon in that morning, heh he... not that I find it funny, but it brings back such memories, nice ones. Well, there is also some bad ones, but I'm kinda forgetful to those. I just forget and keep on going into such life of mine.

BARTHOLOMEW: ...While us, boys, are called _Nezumi_ by the elder, the girls are since they are born called by _Nisan_ ; which means 'marriage'. Ever since the birth, they are taught how to become a good wife. Lenneth... I once painted you, I know you remember it. I would never reject you, no I didn't. I never allowed such kind of idea to happen. Thought I wanted, but never I did. So young you were, and still is... Lenneth. Dirtied by my stain, how could I? The narrow way we found to reach each other... How awful, isn't it? Embarassing? Why the smile above me? Where did we kept that noise? So quiet. We're off the rails. Feelings and secrets thought to be lost forever, I think we're going to the nether regions for what our minds are thinking.

CLYDE: ...For all the things I said, or pretended to, I just don't care for their outcome. Worlds of peace tend to bring war too; it's all a matter of probability. The probability of saying something you might or not regret is relative to the percentage you get to known if your son will be born as a male, or a female. There's no way to know aftewards, just believe, like many of us do. I would want a girl, just to see if she'll grown up like her mother, or like me.

PRESCOTT: ...Fratley. That's the name of one of my sons, one of them that I recall by such name. An unique name, who has been created by the junction of two unexpected words. On a family of many, and given the circumstances of our species, some don't bother choosing a name for the newborn. They just wrap the orange tie on their tails and call then by any name. Before Fratley became his, he was knew as the 'Fifth Highwind'. Me, Clyde, Cynthia, Bart, this Lenneth... we all should be glad for staying alive for such long time. While mostly of Alexandrians and Lindbluniams and the people of Treno await for nine months for one or two, we awaited for the littles ones to come out of their mothers for three weeks. Less than a month is needed for them to be born, yet not fully developed as humans. I admit, only a few of us are able to survive. So why bother with a name? It may sound cruel, but for many families who lost their children, a single son they once called by 'first' or 'ninth' one mattered, even if he had no name of person. Short lifes aside, so when his two years came, my gift to his was a name, but not a simple name, because that gift mattered to me, and us, who recognized of his effort to live. Since that day, that boy carried on of the name _Fratley._ I choose his name based on the junction of the words _Frăț_ , whose meaning is related to fraternity, accompanied of the suffixe - _ley_ , and thus, _Fratley_ was born. Kinda cryptic it sounds the name of the boy, unlike the meaning he carries on within.

BARTHOLOMEW: If war or time or diseases can't kill our sons, then so does the nature of ours. So fragile are our babies, compared to the ones born outside of Burmecia. They are more dependable of heat and milk than humans, and when there's not enough of both for an offspring, there's always a woman near to take care of them. A friend of family, a sister of the mother, the mother or the daughter of the new mother, even the nursemaid who helped in the childbirth. Most of the nursemaids are from Cleyra, a nation, or better, a settlement located at Vube. A sandstorm surrounds what was once seem as a giant tree, called by Yggdrasil, since centuries. On these ancient times, there was a civil outbreak at Burmecia, and so a cult dissolved its ties from there, and went to the place of our ancestors, to found this Cleyra of now. Why this all started? We do not know why, we just forget, but it seems those from Cleyra don't. Maybe they forget the reason as well, but what they don't is how we do things there.

CLYDE: Cleyrans... They don't hold a grudge against us, because after I knew then they are all nice people, nicer than we could be someday, or never. We, Burmecians, are exactly the same as the Cleyrans in blood, yet we seem so different in design, and customs, and maybe a god. They don't seem to be known by the outside world, and they just want to remain this way. In the end, if it wasn't for them, many of our children, their children in a way, would have been gone, like Danny, or Jack, or maybe one of Prescott's five ones, or was there a sixty-one?

CECIL: Beatrix... I carry on no intentions of leading yours to become a soldier. Those are the intentions and only of Madelene's wish. Before you do became the same as me, you need to learn first from your mother what is to be like her, so you'll be able to understand, by love or hate, what is to be a woman. You'll overcome such state, or not if the will of yours is below the average of the words you are still learning to speak of. No matter how hard you try, you'll remain a woman you had been born into such. Even young, the doll I gave you will tell it, not clearly, but as soon as you grew up, you'll see the truth. Now, my dear Christophe... If they can't steal this pendant of mine, then it means they won't be able to take you within their 'after' cast by the last of the movements of my blade, who wishes their 'after'.

**...**


	17. Little Trouble Girl

[♫Sonic Youth - Little Trouble Girl♫](https://youtu.be/7FlzryueF08)

* * *

**July 02, 1778**

**...**

**..**

**.**

****

_Apples._

_MUNCH! CHOMP!..._

_GULP... G-GULP..._ _BURP!_

__

_((( Sorry. We two are hungry, don't you agree? Heh... why I'm smiling like this? To where? Who am I talking to? Can you, at least, hear me? Hey! Can you? There's no other way you can answer me, besides what happened this morning, am I right? Maybe. Thanks to you, I hurled the dinner of last night, or something... I don't know what it truly was that mass, that piece threw away from my body from before, but certainly... disgusting. That's the word I could find to say. There's other words, but you'll learn them when you'll grown up, like me, your mother... )))_

_...99..._

_((( ..._ _Mother? You may be asking what is a mother. My head keeps forgetting things, but I can't forget such a thing as mother. Well, besides mother, I can't forget the smell of anything. I can sense it more now. The smell of the apples, the smell of this the smell of the rain coming from the window, alike the smell of this morning like_ _many. I'll show you what is a morning within the day you'll open the eyes. I wonder which color they got in there... but let's talk about what a mother is. Fine. Who is there to take care of you? Even there, inside? And when you'll come outside, who will embrace your little body with the arms? Don't worry, because it'll be me, your mother. They, like me, exist to carry you in there and here. I live here, and you may also live and learn. I guess you're sleeping by now, even if you didn't learned such from myself... )))_

_...99..._

__

_(((...This pillow you rest. Don't worry. As soon as you are within mother, there's no need to worry about the world outside. It's cold in there, but soon you'll grew up some fur as you live inside this house, and the warm you seek inside here will be the same, I know it will be. Do you believe in me? Truth be told, for your first breath, your throat will burn, but you won't be alone. I'll be there, like now...)))_

_(((...An 'I' is less than 'we', but better than 'nobody'. I'll hold you on the same way I keep you comfortably there, with these hands of mine. See? Those are 'hands'. Some uses their hands given to many things, good and bad ones. But to hold you with these hands will be surely a good thing, one of the best things they could attain. Like before, but now I won't commit such mistakes. Inside and outside, as you stay with me, I'll stay with you, even if you leave, there and here... )))_

_...99..._

__

_(((...Whew. today I slept with no underwear, dreaming of butterflies. Then, when I woke up, I took a bath with my pants on... )))_

_...67..._

_...69..._

_(((...COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!... AAARGH! Oh, don't be afraid. That was just the dust, who fled from my carpet into my nose, and only. I didn't intended to scream, to awake you if you were sleeping. I'm sorry, but I keep forgeting you're the only one who can hear me and my thoughts, after all. Can't understand, but at least, I seem to know you can hear what I hear. Many can do the same as you, yet they sometimes don't, and a few less than sometimes they do something about the message I gave to them. You can't do something, besides listen to me... )))_

_...66..._

_(((...Someday, there'll be no more space remaining to yours there, but in this world there is a lot of space for you, more than the space of these arms and the one inside this house. I can listen to you too, even if you can't talk with your mouth. I'll taught you how to talk with your tongue later as you grow there. Well, what did I said? Oh, yes. You can talk to me, as I can to you. I know you do. When I ate these apples, and now that_ _I ate another, I see you're eating them as well. If you don't, then I'll teach you, someday, when you'll come into my arms... )))_

_(((...Didn't I said it before, did I? Before is before, and should remain like...)))_

_(((...I'll be awaiting for you, patiently. You'll came into my arms and I'll hold you so tightly that nothing will harm you...))_

_...99..._

_...29..._

_(((...What, me? Don't think such a thing. I won't harm you. See this? This is my hand, but look at the tip of each one. There is a nail for each finger of mine, Five on this hand, and five on this other; ten nails on both hands, and counting up the ones of my feet, there's twenty nails. When you'll born, there'll be no nails grew like mine into your hands and feet, thought, if you await like I am awaiting you, they will grown up like mine. When I hold you, these nails are not here to harm you, but those who'll try so...)))_

__

_(((...I'll be there for you, as much as you'll be there for me...))_

_...27..._

_...79..._

_...59..._

__

_(((...Heard it? This is the beat of my heart. You also have a heart too, and you may share it with someone. Not this heart, but another who is called by same name. A Heart, to be exactly. Sure, you don't understand what am I talking about, don't you? It's understandable. I didn't learned of this until I had gotten nine of age, when..._ _Well, let's just say your mother bled. Bled? yes. This is a world of pain, to be fair with you. They hurt you, you bled, you cry, they do more, you bled more, cry more... I might be scaring you by this far, but even I didn't told you how far some got into this._

__

_(((...Maybe it's not the time to say it so, but as I said before, these nails aren't just there to be showed. They need some action; thought, that would inflict the code of honour of the Dragoon Knights... )))_

_..99..._

_...66..._

_(((...Not only mother, but those who do the same job as mother also follow it. It's something called by tradition, my dear. Customs, traditions, the law... you'll learn those. You need to learn. There's not only you that will be born in this world your mother lives. Many will be, and many already had been. You must be wondering if there's not only me, so there's not only a mother, right? You're right. For a mother, there must be a father. Your father, like many, went away from home. He didn't went far from this house because he abandoned us, or because he stopped to think or care about us...)))_

_...96..._

__

_(((...Remember when I told you about the pain of this world? So this war is pain, and pain is war. Your father may be struggling to protect us by now, from the enemy who wants to take us down...)))_

_(((...But that ain't war, my dear. It's the presage of something called by termination. When there's a war to happen or already happening, you feel pain, like those who went to the fight, but when it comes the termination, you have no time to feel pain, because you're away from this world. No, not again where you are, thought you may be a bit right about such. You will live with a body, but when you're gone, your body may perish, but your soul will depart, and part of it will be with the remaining ones who lived, who cared about you. Who else to protect our legacy besides those who knew about you, the things you had done for good? Thought, you may follow the path of evil, but that sure won't happen, with this mother you got, and this mother who will get such a child as you into her same arms...)))_

_...Hungry? So do I. Let's eat._

**...**

Whew... what a conversation I had, mother...

Mother. You were the one who taught me to feel this good. This hair, this snout, this tail, these nails, these eyes, these lips, these cheeks, these arms, these legs, these hips, these clothes... each one of the elements proves I'm a woman, and more, like this house I stand, my husband and son who went outside, and you there, the only one who stood with me.

Mother... Why am I, and must, keep sewing these clothes, if all the men seek is to see us without them? Clothes carry on a meaning to each one. The cloth you and the others wore shows beyond yourself who you are, in a position lower or higher to be compared to anyone. Some who are born without them still achieve such higher positions, as we stand in the lowest or the one they calls by middle, a between that is a easy way found to say 'low' in other words, the words higher than us.

Mother, I am glad that I had such conversation with my son. My son... Jack. I didn't woke him up yet, thought he's able to do it alone. I see him walking downstairs, and he doesn't see me. Or even talk to me. Listen, he does, but why? Maybe it is because he still sees with me a piece of a mother, the piece of a ruler. I know, mother. The one who truly ruled above all the house was father. But I am not a father of his, and never would I be. Even if I had such will like his, I can't. Jack is the kind of son that doesn't seem to obey or care if his mother dissapeared. This mother who stands there. But he must obey, not because of me, but because of his father. He learned such more with the father of his, my husband, the one who should had been his mother instead.

— Hey, m-Lennie... – Jack ate a world, didn't he? No, that may be just my imagination. At least, he spoke with me. On the back of mine, but he spoke something. I'm all ears – Where is the bread?

— The bread? – was it already gone? I recall I had a lot... a week ago. Why do am I keep forgetting? The basic food, as bread? – Is bread the only food in fault, Jack? – I asked to my son. I wanted to see how he reacted when I said his name. Nothing. Just the same silence. To be adressed by the name of his, the name his mother used to call him by such... I still remember those moments, but it seems Jack don't.

— Hey! – Jack shouted. I looked at him, but then he said, with a look of the eye, that he meant to shout so I could hear his. Did he spoke with me when I was thinking? I don't seem to recall it. But now, I'm paying attention to Jack, and what's about to come next from the mouth of his – Lennie... you're so tall. Why can't you see the top?

— I'll see if there's something you might want to – then I raised from the chair I was sitting, enjoying of the apples, and so I came to the cabinet upwards, where Jack couldn't reach. Maybe he could, if I wasn't there. I check if there is something he may like, or not, but it may be something for breakfast, at least. He woke up now, so I must bring him something light to eat. No, no one eats pure carnations, only the desperate one, and he doesn't sound like this way, but still he's hungry. When we wake up, we don't seem to be able to eat, and still we are kept hungry. There it is... oats.

— Geez! Oats! – Jack exclaimed, when I put then into the table – That's food for the aged, Lennie – he uttered.

— Am I, perhaps, an aged? – I felt, somehow, offended by the tone Jack said 'aged', as if I was one. I'm only twenty-one years old, can't he see? Well, it seems he can't. I crossed both arms, and looked throught his eyes with mine, when I asked. I demanded an answer, which came on the way of Jack, and there's no surprises for it.

— Yes – he said, and only. Don't worry about this. He's just a child. Besides, anyone can see this white hair of mine and say wherever they want, but aged? That was the first time. They, those from my family, always told me I was older than my siblings, even when I was a child, like Jack. A child. You had been one too, don't you? And now you are the one awaiting for such. How tables turn... but still, some things are kept. I was once a child, Not so reckless as I recall. But frightned by the look... yes, I was. The look they, both mother and father carried upon their faces, each time I commited a mistake. Father had of the same look each day, whereas mother had her own look, and a bit of father's one.

My arms are no more kept crossed, I think. But Jack still looks at me, and is able to see this concern of mine. I'm worried to his, and so does he to me. And so, he does eat the oats I put in the table. He dislikes them, but insist to eat then. Besides bread, there's no more milk, I see. It's empty, but it'll be filled within this day. Even if I'm not his mother, I'm still the one left to create him.

And to think Bart left one more to be created soon... Well, that's just the start. I wonder, and so I'll keep wondering, where it all will go into. I'm sure Jack and I will be friends; and, maybe, mother and son. The last one seems to be a wish and only for now, so if he doesn't want to be my son, a new friend is fine, like the one whom he told about yesterday.

A female friend for Jack...

I'll be thinking about it.

...


	18. The Hall Of Mirrors

...One... One, two...

...One... One, two...

...One... One, two...

...One... _One, two, three, four!..._

...One... One, two...

...One... One, two...

...One... One, two...

...One... _One, two, three, four!..._

...That dawn... I can hear the sound of the dawn. The sound of the rain, falling upon us. The sound of that boy, and his drum. Reluctantly drumming a pattern. This same pattern I can hear from outside. I can hear... the drums being hit, and see the number of times they are hitten by the sticks. The sticks that boy carried with his drum... the drum... the drum of triumph. This drum... that drum... That boy. I was... that boy. I was playing with my drum on that dawn. I played the same drum on the dawn father left. They played the drums again on the dawn I left. The rain we left. For my father, I played the drum, and the song... for their fathers, the children sang, with the drum that sang... Triumph...

...One... One, two...

...One... One, two...

...One... One, two...

...One... _One, two, three, four!..._

...One... One, two...

...One... _One, two, three, four!..._

...One... One, two...

...One... _One, two, three, four!..._

_...One... One, two..._

_...One... One, two, three, four!..._

_...One... One, two..._

_...One... One, two, three, four!..._

_...One... One, two..._

_...One... One, two, three, four!..._

_...One... One, two..._

_...One... One, two, three, four!..._

* * *

♫[Kraftwerk - Spiegelsaal](https://youtu.be/jvPvScgKpTo)/[The Hall Of Mirrors♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a15yqZ1uL9A)

* * *

**July 02, 1778**

**...**

— ...Excuse me – I heard a voice. I was sleeping as Clyde within this tent of ours, and I wasn't expecting such visitors to arrive near our place. Yes, that voice... It was Sigurd, the one who follows the Prince, Gabriel, who is also standing there, near his. Light came into the inside of the tent as they opened it, so did my eyes. Unlike me, and Clyde, and Prescott, who doesn't seem to be there, maybe he awoke earlier and is now wandering outside, these people... They wear some kind of shining armor, silver for Sigurd and a beige alike gold for the Prince, our Highness; those outfits seems to be made of a better and more resistent material than ours.

Guess I'll never be able to wore one of those. Currently, I'm wearing none of sort, so do Clyde. The only piece of cloth in contact with my body is this blanket I am holding with both hands, so to hid myself from others, like the ones standing in there, and from the cold outside. There are only male people in there, so why worry? Don't know. Not sure why. The only thing I'm sure of is that it's drizzling, as it seems. When it rains, you can feel the tent being hit, struck by each drip falling from atop the sky, it's impact, it's sound, whenever you are on a sleep or not. But when it drizzles, you feel nothing of it. The water still is falling from below the clouds, into such skinny drips, unlike those constants of my homeland.

The rain of Burmecia... there is some kind of mystical to it. I can't explain, not even the legend, but you must feel it, smell it, walk under it to know. I do know, unlike many. When there is strangers wandering around the kingdom, mostly caravans of trade, they say the climate is awful, the rain keeps their shoes moist, the people from there do rather ignore the sad atmosphere of tones of gray, from the clouds to our houses to the skins; mainly their complains are this kind of banality, such as rain keeps watering over my head, to a matter of nescience, such as one said that there is no sun around Burmecia. There is, but only in a few times, and if you're lucky enough, a shard of the same sun for everyone can be seen, and so do the rainbow near it.

I do understand the matter of their complains, as much as they sound this way. Alexandrians, Lindblunians... they all come from a land where the sun can be seem so easily. It's there, up in the sky, blue sky. There is no such blue sky at home, but the sun remains the same, for us and for they. These people from outside, they had been attached of the sun and its light since the day of their birth, unlike we, who had been attached to the clouds and its rain since we had been blessed to live since our birth.

— Are you... Bartholomew Brandford? – Sigurd asked to me. He is some kind of tutor for Gabriel since the birth of his, or so do Clyde or father said. 'Of course am I'. Thought, to answer his question on such way... Clyde's way, I don't think so. I'm wondering why do Sigurd asked, since he should know us since that day he and the Prince had done the personal inspection. We were all on a same horizontal line, same erect position from our legs to the chest, as they watched us as one.

— ...And why do you ask? – it was not me who asked. I would never, but Clyde... I knew he would. Clyde was listening to what Sigurd talked briefly, laying on another bed, another sleep, unlike mine. Why they came in, to our tent? I also wanted to know why such formality and coincidence colliding within each. Not on the same way as Clyde, on the way he looked upon Sigurd and the Prince, but I wanted to know, on my way.

— You see... – Sigurd paused for a while. It seemed that only Sigurd talked to us, but the Prince, well, he stood besides his tutor. Not behind, not so far, not in front of his. Just quiet and on his side. He seems to look at us, but at the same time, he doesn't. He doesn't share of a static vision as Sigurd, or Clyde. Not that he want, but just that he wants to look at everything. His head turns to left, right, to the front, as he stand in there, near the tutor of his.

Father fought alongside King Stephanus, who once was Gabriel's father, the only remaining parent of his. The Queen Racquel died at the same time he was born, her last son, and the King stood figthing outside the palace, while his brothers were taught by tutors, including Sigurd, his and only until now, the one who speaks when he doesn't – We are rather surprised to see you in this such pitiful state. To think Brandfords like yours stay in there...

— Oh, so you've came here to mock us? – asked Clyde, on the same way of his. At the same time he asked, he already answered such question. The way he asked... as if he didn't cared for what Sigurd intended to answer, because that would change nothing, alike the monarchy above us, and the armors they carry over their bodies, or something of sorts. Ever since I was born, or if I recall the day I learned to talk, Clyde was that kind, not this kind, but the seed that became the plant he is now.

The kind of kid in constant activity, all little Clyde wanted was attention, either by the words of his or by things that can't be rightfully expressed into mere words. To be awake into the nights where we used to sleep, to warm a bed with the piss of his while on sleep, to cover himself into mud to let mother wash his, invite us to measure our sticks back in the alley... All Clyde wanted was attention, and still he does. With words, of his alone, but when others are gathered near or distant of his, besides attention, Clyde wants they to follow his, by words or actions same as his words.

To force others to do the same as his, conditionally or not; mostly Clyde fooled me and our brothers to do what he intended on a way we didn't even know what he was about to do. Most of what I do and what I became for other people was thanks to Clyde being born before me, and other brothers as well. I know, benath the skin of ours, we all have some kind of Clyde, thought we do not manifest on the same way as his, the original vessel. Clyde ain't a childish one, thought sometimes he is. More like a plant that wants to live in the sun, his and only. We all know the sun is above us, always keep shining upon this and other lands, no matter if there are clouds or the thick layers of Mist to block it's light.

...But why in the hell do am I paying attention to Clyde on such a moment? And am I the only one who is doing this by now?

No more. _Anyway..._

— Certainly not – answered Gabriel. We all went into a moment of surprise. By all, I mean Clyde and me, maybe Prescott if he was there, except Sigurd, who only stood quiet as the Prince spoke. He looked serious, as he was about to speak in the same way as his face shown to us – We are inviting all soldiers who came to this place for a ceremony, in honor of the greatest Burmecian warrior who ever existed, the one who wrote the words in the book, the first and only of his. It will be a pleasure for all us, part of the Holy Burmecian Empire army, and those who decided to be part of it.

I looked at Clyde before the Prince spoke to us, and others as well, since we all had been invited to this ceremony he had told. When I turned to see Clyde, briefly, I could see somehow a look of 'decided, me?' upon the face of his. His frown wasn't fully showed towards Sigurd and the Prince, but there was a signal pointing of its existence, a brief one that vanished, or seemingly had. After all, who would interrupt the Prince with words? Not even Clyde is this kind of individual, but he always find a way to be the spot for all lines to cross into his.

But he was right. Who decided to be there? We all had been accepted in the army because we signed the papers when we turned eighteen or sixteen years-old. They could have called us into anything that resembles a war, and we would do nothing than obey. But we had no reason to worry, since the wars went over after the revolution brought by Lindblum came, or so that's what we thought. On those times, we lived our lives, what we decided to do by ourselves, this before we found another to live together with his.

Lenneth, Cynthia, this Sophia Prescott speaks about... we, or some of us, learned to live for the sake of another, beyond ourselves, because they became part of us. What would you say, feel, after years of amends made, to accept a woman once a girl we despised as kids, to come into emotional terms with the partner to anything we desired, to led this someone who cares for us accept of our presence deep into her, a heart of a gold we will never attain, to have and to hold. A 'goodbye', 'won't come back', 'please take care of my son, our son' isn't enough. Never had been.

On this same kind of way as mine, he was right to be a bit upset, and worried at same time, even thought the upset side of his was shown in more time than the worried one, who persisted when the Prince and the tutor of his left our tent, to come into another as they had done here, and before, and now. Now, to describe the look of Clyde in a few words... He disguised the looks he had into another ones, the looks he wished I had of his. We all wished, or so do Clyde. Even when nobody can't see the look of his, some like me can feel what Clyde is expressing, some sort of force pulling me into his, a force shown by the words of his, or by himself as a whole.

What do I feel for Clyde can't be truly expressed into words, like when he sometimes can't handle a single conversation, to me, others and even himself, until he collapses into random directions. Directions, paths that can't be taken back, like doors you can open, but can't open once you've found himself inside the room. But he sure had gotten the attention, this and other ways, didn't he? A sort of dissapointment and a need of attention; that is by far the description I could get of the naked side of his.

When Clyde speaks, we give him attention as a baby who is crying for food, or for what maybe Clyde needs, comfort, that sounds unlike some of the words he find sometimes to express. When Clyde doesn't speak, some still give him attention, as a baby, who is now quiet, on his own. A baby who always had been crying all day along, and now, seems so quiet... 'Is it asleep?'; 'Is it peak-a-boo?'; 'Is it dead?'; these, those and more are the doubts of ours. Doubts that can be said, on a conversation, or into expressions, abstract as part of what makes Clyde behave on such way, but that is only a part of his, the part meant to be shown.

— You... what are you two awaiting for? – Someone asked. This someone's voice could be heard from outside, near our tent. As usual, and only, it was a male voice, from a same male that came in. It was Prescott, the one who woke up before us so he could do us a favour. Not that we demanded of such, but he had done it either way – here. It looks the same as always, but it should be better to wear them.

He was referring to our armors and the piece of cloth we all wear below them. Underneath the armor, pieces of cloth dyed on an azure tone, attached to a kind of green as lime, or just green by a few. Not all our clothes are the same, but they are in a way, like some of us have a brighter or darker tone of gray. On the feet, gaiters are wore; they are essential as the protector we wore in both our hands, and reccomended as a sheath were the blade is hid. For those who don't carry on a sword, a javelin is kept on their back. If not, we are born with those claws, but I think that is a rather savage way of dealing with such thing as a combat. I don't know what others think, but maybe it's the same as me, or maybe not.

— ...Is there someone who died? – asked Clyde. Seeing the look of Clyde's eyes, it was as if he wished someone to die. Don't know who, but he was awaiting for such. I know Clyde ain't a murderer, of his and others. And that's the kind of Clyde I don't know much about; the one who was raised between the Royal Family, as a personal guard of the Palace and its surroundings, who knew about this Prescott, that found a way to answer the question of his, but not mine, because I didn't asked for his, but I was awaiting to ask for another.

— ...No, but it wished such for a long time.

— It? – I asked. I was intrigued by the words of Prescott. A few that became a whole to me – You... you don't mean...

— Maybe. Now, Bart, Clyde... when you're both ready, follow me.

Now, this armor... Not so heavy, but I thought it was once. Maybe I had changed of idea because me, like we, had been in union with this uniform for all these days, so I just forgot how heavy it is, and again I should, for now. The only part upper us to be left exposed by the hat are these pair of ears, besides the face of ours, and a kind of tatoo for a few. Like our ancestors, we paint our body; only our face has such spot to be seen now, since we don't fight against our enemies naked like they used to. For some, they are seem as some some sort of garments, but a garment is a mere thing to compare with our past.

Some of us also wear earrings, but like the tatoos of our faces, they aren't just there for decoration. So, the skin of a few are endowed with a kind of symbol, but what does such mean... Bravery? Courage? Valor? Honour? Luck, perhaps? Idon't know, like we, like everyone. Because mostly our story had been told from mouth to mouth, the meaning of many things left by our ancestors to younger generations of this future had been lost forever, or changed abruptly from its original meaning. Even Bahamut, our God, had changed with time. For some, he is a Fish; to others, he is a Dragon, a Cloud, the Wind... some believe Bahamut is the rain itself, the one that falls upon us at Burmecia. We will never know, and that's one positive thing, of many negatives left.

A single tatoo... The ones who share of the symbol mostly are from the Royal Division, the King's personal soldiers. Clyde once was one of them, but I wonder what happened to his. To think he become a baker... not bad. Not bad. Suits him fine, I guess. He was never a kind of cooker, but I wonder if he changed after Cynthia came. I changed for Lenneth, so Clyde did for his wife, I guess. For better, or for less better, because he is already of a screwed person. Not a bad or worse person, because we all have problems. And there are problems that can be solved, they all can, but for Clyde, there is no solution such as problem resolved, but relief the problems of his is a more adequate term.

Now that we wore all the parts that, combined, make one uniform, me and Clyde followed Prescott, who were watching us from outside the tent, from the moment he gave us our once dirty outfits, who went clean when they came to his hands, to the moment we finished and were prepared to follow where Prescott was going in. He said to follow his, and I just follow, like Clyde does. I don't question, because it may be an order from the Prince itself, but kinda I wanted. Maybe my doubts will be clarified in the middle of the way. Within a second, everyone else had gotten in the range of the falling drizzle, like the tents we stood at their inside.

For the safety of our camp, a few soldiers stood, the same who presumably went before us, awoke before us, as I could see in their eyes. They needed some rest, but not now. If there was no one left in the camp, maybe the Vices would find an opportunity to steal or even destroy the camp we made with our hands, to be later fall apart by the hands of it. As they keep on defensive stance, by relaxing their legs and feet, holding of a sword with the blade turned backwards, they are allowed by such position to pounce with great speed into any direction if an attack might come from all sorts of direction, left or right, up or down, front and back. Without their armor and hat, like mine, their speed increase on a range they are able to avoid, at the same time they can revidate with an attack of the blade. Interesting...

The rest went into some kind of ceremony, or so does seem to be, as the Prince hinted to us. The greatest Burmecian warrior who ever existed... I recall to heard such words before. Maybe when I was a child, but I don't seem to remember mostly of it. The tales of past eras told by our parents, maybe it was something related to one of these stories told before we slept in our beds. Maybe I had slept before they finished the story, perhaps. But there is is always time to learn things once again. Just because we grown up doesn't mean we can carry on the knowledge the same people of same age as ours on those times taught us. Some things are kept forever in our minds, while others just vanish in a matter of time.

— Prescott – I said. As we walked further, my doubts also increased as the lenght of the path we followed. And they ached as the feet of mine as well.

— What is it, Bart? – he asked. Those rocks... Inconsiderate rocks. If it wasn't for those gaiters, I, as my feet, would be done for so long by now. The woe would be abysmal. So, Prescott asked, because I spoke his name. Not in vain, but I said his name, because I had a question. I still have, but because I had been interrupted by these rocks... Forget these rocks, and give him your question for once.

— Prescott... – for a moment, we all stopped. Me, Prescott, and Clyde. As the drizzle kept falling upon us, soft as the rains of April, I had the question ready to be told to the Highwind one – To where exactly are we going?

— Hmmm... – Prescott remained quiet, for a second, before he pointed with his index to the hills, the ones found in front of us – There. Right there.

Those were the Poplos Heights, known by us and the foreigners because of the Grand Dragons that surrounds their entirety. No one without a sort of weapon has ever been related to have returned alive, only a few, but that's rather questionable. Prescott didn't pointed right into the heights, but below then, on a passge, the only that connects our Kingdom to the other lands, and the other kingdoms of such lands. Now, I recall why we are there... that is the exit, or opening from the side we stand, of Gizamaluke's Grotto.

As I said, that's the only way supplies and people from the lands beyond Burmecia can reach. A kind of route, the only one from there to here who seems to be crossed with security. On this side, in front of us, two unites are kept in guard, on the same way other two stands at the other side of the Grotto, awaiting to receive the trade or people to cross the border; people naturally born here, at Burmecia, and a few explorers from Alexandria, Lindblum and other lands besides ours. All the gates inside the grotto can only be opened by a system of bells, that once rang, can open a certain passage, depending of where the unit is on guard. A similar system can be found at the entrances that lead to the Royal Palace.

Now I do know why we are here. It's a custom for each soldier, no matter the rank he carry beng the lowest of all, to be invited into a ceremony that happens on the inside of Gizamaluke's Grotto. The place is called by this way because of the creature that lies within there, an aquatic being by the name of Gizamaluke, preceded by a Master for us, whom it protects, or so does seem to have been told. Either way, the one who protected us from many wars, that's it. I may sound a little harsh when I refer to Gizamaluke by 'it', but that is just the nearest pronoun I could find to differ 'it' from the other Gizamaluk.

That's why they added an 'e' at the end of his name, to separate the Gizamaluk from what he became. Prior today, many centuries ago, at the beginnings of the construction of Burmecia, still with the name of Land/Kingdom of Lucrecia, Gizamaluk, the eldest son of Burmecia's first King, Kain, and creator of our current warrior code. A proud warrior, said to be the one who created the first Burmecian warrior code. Nowadays, we follow a strictly revised code, still based on the manuscripts of the original author, whose oldest document containing the words and guidelines related to be his is being kept since then at the Palace.

Gizamaluk is also regarded as one of the predecessors of the Dragoon technique, alongside his mother, Frigg. The same technique was later taught to and by Cyan, the only son of Nathan, Kain's only son in blood, who founded a school where the fundaments of Dragoon would be taught to other nobles, that used of the technique of quick and agile movements to hunt some dragons in the days of hunt. Seeing this as an outrage, since his mother would never use of the Dragoon technique to hunt dragons only for fun, besides being a privilege for only a few people, that was the start of Gizamaluk's descent.

Since when he was an infant, Gizamaluk had always been fascinated with mirrors. It is said that he demanded the walls, the room, the corridor of the Palace to be polished on a way he could look at himself when he came in such place. Gizamaluk was Nathan's brother in a way, but not truly, like a brother is tied to other by blood, since Kain, the one whom he called by father found his alone and later decided to be with his. Before, other than himself, Gizamaluk had no one to be part of. The fountain that still can be seem at the ruins of Kilde was the only place where he could look at his, and call by other. The only one with the same blood of his was Frigg, his mother, who alongside Kain helped with the foundation of the new civilization that would later become the Burmecia of now.

When Kain's wife, Lucrecia, unfortunately passed away, and Bulumecia was the name given to the land they stood from there until now, Frigg stood to comfort the King and the sudden demise of the wife of his. Frigg never had a sort of relationship with Kain, besides the two being related to the events prior the foundation. They remained together since them; more than to relieve the pain of his loss, Frigg stood with Kain, because that's what he would do if it was her, since he already did the same before, with her, and Gizamaluk.

To make Frigg proud of his, Gizamaluk become a Knight. He would often train with his mother, who taught his the principles of what would today become the same Dragoon techniques learned by Lenneth, and other who since childhood wanted to become such Knights. When Gizamaluk saw Kain, the foster father of his, with Frigg, his mother, succeding the days, as they developed more than a mutual need of finding a way to end the aching of both. Mother and father, Frigg was not Lucrecia, but soon she developed of same feelings, and same way to feel elation. Succeding the days, all Gizamaluk wanted was to see Frigg happy, as much as Lucrecia was when along Kain. However, her uneasiness went far more than Kain's situation, which seemed to had been brought to a fair conclusion in days, unlike her concerns about the usage in vain of the Dragoon taught for the ones who used of such power for mere entertainment, which never had been brought to a desired end.

About the end... Well, came the day Frigg succumbed into the way of all flesh. She would later die after fighting against a horde of dragons into their nest, just for the sake of her people; the sake of being a Dragoon Knight, the true essence, not being recognized as such, being lowered into a sport, instead of a task a Knight carries on. He demanded Frigg and her legacy to be considered this way, but such efforts seemed to had been gone away from his, and had no effect on the many others. Seeing this, that was Gizamaluk's last straw, or so he deemed to be. From later on, he became an unpleasant person. His appearence, once of a noble, now resembled the inner state of his disordered soul and thoughts in conflict. No mirrors were left on his room, only shards, as he only drank the glass full of water with both eyes closed, because he didn't accept what he had become, or what the water told him of his self. Which self? Who he was?

What would Gizamaluk do without the mother of his? It was Frigg who raised his away from herself, to define what Gizamaluk would become. It was Frigg who defined what a Dragoon is, not those who missed its meaning, and pretended to see the work of a Dragoon as a mere way to waste time. She even gave her body to the grave for the sake of them, and for the sake of the meaning of a Dragoon... at least, Kain, and his son Nathan, knew for what Frigg fought for, and the reason why, for Gizamaluk's relief. A brief relief, thought Nathan, who also lost a mother, was willing to carry on the Dragoon technique further and show to others its real purport, a thing his son, Cyan, would do later when grown up, but Gizamaluk wasn't there to see such act. Never was.

Frigg was no mere person to Gizamaluk. It was his mother, and only. The only living part of his that shared of same blood. Mother wasn't there no more, so why he bothered to live with his father? Gizamaluk had a family, but because of his routine, never was there to raise his son. Instead, his wife was. On Gizamaluk's life, there was always another who had gave a step beyond before his. Another to raise of his children, another to be given orders, another to be proud of, another to be given happiness of, another to be filled in by joy, another to love his mother, another to be accepted by mother... Always someone copying what he wished his to do. It was then that Gizamaluk took a harsh decision: to abandon his family, his people, for the sake of what he become, and for the sake of those who become his.

— ...So this is the place where the crybaby rests? – Clyde asked, but in a way he already gave us an answer. His answer, and only, implied on the way of his. I looked at him, with a look that gave him another answer, because I wouldn't with my bare fist.

— Please, Clyde. Have more respect for Master Gizamaluke – I trembled a bit. It's a kind of strange to describe, but I tremble, feel powerless when someone shouts at me. The same happens when I shout to someone. I didn't shouted, neither Clyde did, but I feel on a same way as if he, or me, indeed increased the voice. For some reason, I was about, was willing to punch his face, but the tremble doesn't want to. It's like my body is saying 'no', 'don't do it', and it's right. The tremble still remains, but soon will vanish for good, and return once again.

If we were alone, maybe I would, but Prescott was there, and so the others, like Clyde. What would they think of me after the happening? Isn't that the reason why we don't kill each other? Why am I thinking of such matter, in a moment like this? Now, hear what your body says... Each tremble... slowly dissipating, like the ripples in a water puddle... Don't follow Clyde. Just. Don't. That's what he wants, and always does. To let someone follow his and keep following, to drain all forces of yours to his eyes, to give attention to his, and only his. _Geez..._ I feel like an unlikely hero on such moments. Some mouths may sound different from another, as a mirror may show a distorted side of ours, so does the legend surrounding Gizamaluk and his fall.

He thought his strenght alone would suffice over his victories and failures. Not only he thought for himself, but to others as well. That's what Frigg would do if on his place, and what Gizamaluk would do if on her same place, the place he wished once to stood. Sigurd rang the bell, and so the entrance of the Grotto allowed us to be in. Now, as we found ourselves, guided by the Prince and its tutor into the dephts of the Grotto, that became blue by each step taken by ours, until we reached a room so dark that only the green of the mushrooms glowing inside could be seem, as the aquamarine of the clear pool of water, and its placid surface, from where it emerged beneath us. It was there... Master Gizamaluke.

A giant being, higher than the height of two of us on a vertical position, lower than the ceiling covered by stalactites, cold as the indigo skin, emitting of a characteristic fishy scent, a shrunken-like armor in the chest with a tone of amarantite, a pair of keels on the ridge and below the end of its large tail, a pair of horns in the reptile head of his, both pointy as the tip of each flippers, alike the wings of a dragon, thought Gizamaluke seems to be able to stand in thin air without the need of those. It is already before us, before the ground we stand, as the water who once covered the body of his falls like the dew of the morning flowing into the leafs. From there, Gizamaluke watch us, as we can hear a few grunts of his. Legend say his eyes, once said to be green when alive, like many verdelites belonging to us, glow into a red belonging to zircon gems. The air of the Grotto, the air our lungs breath carries on of such inexpicable intimidation. Perhaps it's fear, a transient fear we all share since the birth. It's a kind of common fear, the fear of trying to understanding the new, the unnexpected who is seem as danger, naturally.

— So this is the Master Gizamaluke – said Clyde, looking keenly at the Master. It did nothing but look, and grunt softly.

— Yes, it is – Sigurd said, looking at the being standing up in the air as well – Gizamaluke is loyal to us, Burmecians, and those we protect. Merchants, travelers, foreigners who decided to stay at Burmecia, who agreed to not harm any of us in the process.

— So he is as loyal as he once was? – I asked, looking at Gizamaluke, trying to find a bit of Gizamaluk. Sigurd said he is loyal to us, as Gizamaluk was concerned about others as well. So concerned that he abandoned his people, and were left on his own. They say Gizamaluk fled, until he came to this grotto we now stand, and so does he, on that form.

— Nothing comes from nothing, and anything is in constant search for nothing, but it will never reach such desired goal, no matter the path taken. Had you ever heard of the mass conservation principle? – I and Clyde looked at each of our faces, then we redirected of our look at Clyde. The faces said to his a kind of no. Not a single 'no', as if we didn't wanted to know, but a 'no' like the one you can see, spot in the face of children everywhere. We have children, and so they have their questions; none of their questions are dumb, but instead, mostly the ones given to us to answer are interesting enough to keep us talking to his, until they are satisfied enough. We, like our children, expressed such 'no', and a need to be satisfied by his answer. So did Prescott, on the way he found to fullfill the empty of our both doubts. Sigurd expressed nothing of sort, but the Prince was on same doubts as we, still looking at _that_ being.

— Don't know? Very well. This principle, theory I've learned from a friend of mine, who studies at the library of Daguerreo, the finest ever seen by now, states that materia, physical one, like the objects you can touch, feel, share of a certain amount of warmth, does exist, and it will ever exist. In sort, materia can't be destroyed, but adapted, converted into something new. Nothing in this world we live can be destroyed, but turned into something else, like a mountain can become crumbles of sand, or a deceased tree as a rotten corpse become one day part of the same soil such living beings had been raised together.

— Yes, we are dealing with the physical aspect of it – Clyde said, after he, as me, showed a face of 'we understood, somehow' – People change for no reason at all...

— Who said that Gizamaluk changed? – asked Sigurd, now interrupting us after he stood in silence. A brief silence, until Prescott came with this principle – If Prescott is right, or half-right, then this Gizamaluke is nothing to be compared to the knight Gizamaluk once was. Well, this Gizamaluke we see _,_ but what about the soul, Prescott?

— Yes, the soul... – Prescott briefly paused, thinking of an argument that contradicts what Sigurd asked his. So he did came up with an explanation – I told you about the material side of the matter, and how does materia we can see with _our eyes_ can be transformed into another, that has no resemblance to the original format of such. But the soul can't be considered as a physical object, can it?

— So, if the conservation principle doesn't apply to objects we can't see and interact with, then the soul remains the same, isn't? – the Prince asked. Maybe he understood far more than us.

 _— ..._ Does _that thing_ has a soul!? – Clyde asked. It was as if he was surprised by our questions being the same, so he came up with his own – Does a soul ever exist for _his_? Please. Gizamaluke is merely a slave of ours, I say. The reason why Gizamaluke protects us is because it needs someone to protect, or so it does believe to be like 'he'. Gizamaluk is dead, and this Gizamaluke that now stands beyond the grave of the another who deserved to be dead? Wasn't that the only way the child would be with mother once again?

No one refuted Clyde. He was kind of right. Not fully, but sort of. The legend about Gizamaluk ends on this way: After finding this grotto to rest, Gizamaluk came up into this same place, this same room that once was only a cave, and the entrance led to a pool of water, and only. When Gizamaluk saw this water, the clearest water ever seen, clear than any mirror or other water belonging to somewhere else. Even when a tear just felt in there, the vision he had of himself in the surface of the water remained still, with the ripples surrounding the expression of his face. Was he happy? Sad? Upset? Worried? Nobody knows. Not even Gizamaluk knew what he felt. Days passed, and he felt no hunger and no thirsty, not even fatigue, as he only watched his being reflected at the water. He tried to hold with its arms the water that soaked his arms and always found a way to came back to same pool below his.

Then, came the day Nathan, followed by a few soldiers of his, came to find Gizamaluk and bring him back home, but he refused to be at home. The image of his at home already had been damaged, and distorted by ripples, dirtied by the crumbles of rocks flowing into the river. There would be no Frigg at home, but there, on that water, that vision of his... Seeing the image of his mother, Gizamaluk jumped in the water, and drowned as his body went underwater, until it emerged, as he was already dead, with a smile upon his face, and in the surface of same water that become his grave. Well, his body may be the one that drowned in the pool, his body is the one thing that is dead, but the soul, the legacy of his...

Master Gizamaluke stood before us, and so we stood. Gizamaluke looked at us, before it came back to the place it belonged, since his death. The soul of Gizamaluk may be inside that body, or so that's what I understood of Prescott's words. As we left the grotto, we being the last soldiers to do this kind of ceremony, to contemplate the one who protected us... who needed of protection as well. Now that Gizamaluke flows into the water, quietly as the grunts he emmited on our conversation, quiet as the agony of his. Yes, I may had been the one who saw it, but those eyes... they looked at us, pleading more than security. They were pleading for death. Gizamaluk may had died; well, the body of his may had been the one who drowned and were buried, but the soul, that same soul that once inhabited another body, the human body of his, like ours, no longer ours... and the cell of it is the monster he became, or thought to be.

Still is unknown to where souls go. But that souls remain the same, that may be true, for us and Gizamaluk. Master Gizamaluk; a slave of ours, and himself. Or maybe the himself he once was, and never was.

**...**


	19. Fall On Me

[♫R.E.M. - Fall On Me♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHsXOA_vK2A&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=37)

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_The second day of thirty ones that compose the entirety of July came, and still hasn't gotten away yet. When the morning came, with its everlasting silver of the flow of each cloud surrounding the skies of Burmecia. The gray from each cloud varies, as the people who inhabits such lands by centuries. Lands, hills, plains, who had become fertile and productive thanks to the water element, that may be found falling from such sky, obscured by the clouds for what seem to be an eternity, or flowing into the landscape, as part of Kinneas, a river of great distances that is source of both food for the local population, like fishes, mostly tiny minnows and trouts, and once navigation on ancient times, when Kinneas covered mostly of these lands the people who followed Bahamut stood._

_Those people are referred by others, and themselves as Burmecians. They are well known beings, due to their peculiar appearance. This singular group differed quite a lot from other groups. The external peculiarities from a muroid rodent from the genus Rattus, like a double pair of ears, a large snout characteristic from the species, alike a tail and a pair of claws for both upper and lower limbs, and a fur that covers their naked skin, the body that resembles a human body characterize this interesting group. Around year 1300, a group of travelers, mainly from Lindblum, went deep down the sea of Mist, only to find out the place were these people came from, who had changed from a mere civilization bounded by mutual needs to a new and complex society._

_Unlike other people of the Mist Continent, there are many of them, an entire population, a kingdom to be called their own, but mostly of their history remains forgotten for the general populace of Gaia. This because the oral tradition surpassed the writing tradition in terms of storytelling; the myths surrounding their origin, the creation of their kingdom, the legends surrounding the historical figures... Documents, manuscripts had never been written in large scale, until the discovery of a proper writing system for all. Before, a few had been written by the usage of an standard alphabet, also found in the ruins of what were once knew as Bulu, Klaire and Kilde. The oldest document wrote with this sort of writing is is a copy of The Book of Gizamaluk. Not exactly a book, but manuscripts that were later revised as a book, kept since the death of his author on the inside of the Burmecian Palace._

_Thought these kind of documents of an era are well maintaned until these days, still mostly of the history surrounding Burmecia remains unknown, even if the records of past eras told to describe such are found until this century. This happens because it takes time to translate from a language to another, as the writing develops to the major population than it was once reserved for a few people to the entirety of the society, for generations. Since the contact with explorers from the lands above, the Burmecians learned more, and started to include such knowledge of world to their own, such as the words of the current alphabet, customs varying from table manners and even slang terms were included to their vast amount of traditions. In return, the Burmecians learned the concepts of Market and Trade, as they deliver until today their products to the neighboors, mainly spice, and fish._

_Kinneas, whose wellspring can be found atop the mountains that surround the back of the kingdom's outskirts, mainly the comercial area of such, the core where mostly they live, known by all kind of people who live there and foreigners as Market, and the Palace, where the Royal family, or families, since many had taken the throne after centuries, live to rule. Althought the river upplies fish to the population, his water can't be used for consume, because of the amount of dirt that comes from the mountains into his stream, thought the majority of the population drinks of such water, besides the one Bahamut offers then, they all, his rain, the gift brought to his people. From above, water falls from the skies, falls into the trees, becomes small puddles in the pavement, becomes part of the below, the land where the people who feed of same water inhabit by centuries._

_Rain falls down and fills in lakes and marshes, where dragonflys await to be born, live throught their entire life, to later die to be born once again, avoiding of being eaten by its predators, such as the pike, the major predator of all animals that resides within the marshes, except from those who came from another lands. Once stabbed with the tip of a javelin, pike meat, like the meat belonging to other speciments of fish that once swimmed in the quiet lakes and marshes, or in the stream o f Kinneas, had become another dish often consumed by the people of Burmecia, alongside lizard tails, frog legs, iced tea, chai, moorhen pie, scrambled eggs of same jacana, ironite beef, fried axolotls, oats and rice. To eat, or to be eaten; don't play with your food, unless it plays with you first._

_So it is war and its principles. Since it's reunification, Burmecia stayed on relative peace, well, until centuries later, before its rediscovery. Lindblum explorers who where willing to go deep into the sea of Mist found of this civilization, and the people who changed from raging hordes to a complex society, similar to their own. Since then, the Burmecians had entered in contact with other civilizations, prominently Lindblum, the kingdom who officially rediscovered they all and its rival, the kingdom of Alexandria. By convention, they are all humans, but some are more human than others. During the middle of the 14th century, a civil war were outbreaked, and the main reason of this incident was the ownership of a shard belonging to a crystal, once in possession of Alexandria._

_With the war over, and King Magnus claiming the shard to his, another tragic incident happened on those scoundrel days. A hundred burmecians were poisoned, presumably due to toxins found running at the main river, and the fish who resided in there. Claiming to be a curse brought by the foreign ones, a group of fundamentalists, members of a cult created by Aquinas, retired themselves to the lands that once belong to they and burmecian ancestors, to found Cleyra, their own settlement, up on a gigantic tree trunk._

_During war times, it is common the decrease of males from a certain population. The majority of Burmecia's army were composed by proud male soldiers. A high amount of them meet the end of their lives at the warfield, grated for being able to protect their homeland. Thought, such contradictory index tends to happen on those times. Even after the loss of many in war, it's common and still is the sudden increase of birth rate among the population. By tradition, the more they had sons, more prospere their lives would become. If you ask to a burmecian child about their future, the answer given might depend of their sex. Boys want to be soldiers, girls naturally tend to become moms, althought only one future is common for the two: The future of becoming a Dragon Knight._

_Dragon Knights, or just Dragoons, are the main inspiration of the majority of the population. The main job of a Dragoon Knight before they became renowned was to hunt dragons. On a similar way a whale hunter hunts down whales to extract their oil and meat, dragons where hunted and killed by those noble knights to extract all they could from their deceased bodies. But as time went by, to be a Dragoon Knight achieved a new meaning. To be a Dragoon Knight meaned something more than just killing dragons, but to be respected, to be remembered by generations. To be a Dragoon is the dream of a lifetime. But, for some, to be a Dragoon means to live in seldom, to be kept away from others, in order to secure others._


	20. After The Flood

[♫Talk Talk - After The Flood♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LrS5ztAJ5xw&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=39)

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**July 03, 1778**

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**...**

For my dear ones,

With the ceremony of before over for all of us, unlike the training given to us by Komakino, the eldest of all commanders and us, as soon as the sun shone, rising from the horizon of the next day, we dismantled our tents, then we moved northwest of Burmecia, until all of us arrived at Vube desert. Yes, the desert... For someone who came from the wet plains to these dunes of sand, this place might be seen with a shocking gaze of the eye, and the soul. But for me, a Highwind, a traveler by nature, life is made of new experiences. Once you break with your habits, something inside us awaken, this something never meant to be awoke by many. The sleepers must awaken to something new, or else, they are kept on their slumber, in the dark room, where time stands still.

There seems to be a few clouds in the desert, as much as there is absolutely no sign of the Mist, gray as the clouds that once covered the skies for us, but for you that stood there, all remained the same. For the first time, in weeks for me, but in years for many, we all saw the sun shine upon us. The white star, who brought of its heat in the morning, more heat than the expected. Instead of the rain running throught our body, the scent and moisture of a sweat came to fill in its place. This sweat, who left our bodies as the air in our lungs, in more quantity than the day before we arrived, carrying of our tents to be placed here, or there. As I am writing this card, there are other men on the outside, trying to find a place where their tents can be kept. This because of the sand, and of the things beneath it.

Unfortunately, one of the men had the leg bitten by an Antilon larva. Antilions. Nasty creatures who moves freely around sand. They are attracted by the surface vibrations. These creatures, before they grown into something that resembles an ugly beetle with the legs of a crab and the deformed face of a devil, their larvas remain hid in the sand, hunting for preys by excavating traps, which can be spotted as cone-shaped sand pits, to lure them into the bottom, where the larva stays awaiting for the careless ones. Sensitive to ground vibrations, once the victim falls further into the sand pit, it keeps falling, due to the sand and the shape of the trap preventing they to escape on his own. Now, upon bitting its prey with the hollow jaws, instead of tearing apart a limb, the larva instead sucks dry the fluids of the prey, mainly blood, and when its finished, the larva throws away the leftovers and fixes the walls surrounding the trap, then awaits for another meal.

Scary, isn't it? For the sons, many fathers say 'don't be afraid', but I will say otherwise. It's natural to be afraid, to carry on some fear, and Hope to relief such fear. But the Fear is meant to be avoided, know it. When you become hopeless, you are afraid of anything, even if you try or not, but when you become full or have a single bit of hope, you are fearless. Only the hopeless feel the Fear, and only Fear can block the way, the path you desire to follow. Remember that only the road remains wide open while your dreams are alive. And when there is life, there is Hope.

Think of how many times did I risked my life, but not the hope of mine over those situations, alike now. Such as me, who once traveled to the Aerbs on foot, growing calluses for the feet; who climbed the boulders of a single Stone Tower before it crumbled and I felt with the rocks that sustained it on the sea, who had the limbs been turned into stone during an ambush by the Evil Forest, who had the unique experience of swimming on the tides of the Devil's Waterfall, and almost had been sucked in by a maelstrom if it wasn't for the rope tightened onto me by me, the one who knows how dangerous things are, this prior the construction of Lindblum's Gate on the same area.

And I won't forget the time I flied on a Chocobo Helix... Yes, that was a bad idea, I know, and my bones as well do know. Don't know who was the one who felt on the trap, but fortunately he is still alive, still feeling of the same pain on the same leg. Three other men saved the life of his, and killed that same larva. Now guess what we do have for dinner? Without a shadow, the sweat runs dry, as the sun may burn us a bit. And that's the desert for many, isn't? You, as much as I, may be asking why am I here, on this wasteland at first sight. Well, those were the orders of Sigurd. Truth be told, besides your mother, daddy can't disobey what Sigurd has told his to do, because daddy doesn't know what to do on his own. No one knows. I'm not akin to warfare tactics, but maybe Sigurd is, since he has been there before I came into this. He was already there, giving us orders when I came.

This was before the well-known for a few Airship Revolution came. Before, a sucession of wars went through years, and still they do. Not only this war, but the one that still follow us, from within, seem by others from outside. As if we had been pulled backwards, while they migrated to the highest plateaus, we had been left on our own, to build our own history, though some of they brought us the words of the books, the remaining letters of the alphabet, the sounds of our voices spoken, the needle we use to sew clothings, and so many uncountable favours, so many means brought to be later justified for us being 'primordial', 'archaic', 'delayed'. Sometimes, I wonder if they only know our people, our kingdom just for economics, for the spice, the bittersweet coffee and for the atrocities I hope for not happen, until I and my spear are prepared to deal with such.

If Alexandria does intend to invade Burmecia, then why cross the desert? And how do they will find a way to cross the boundaries? Grand Dragons inhabit the Poplos and its surroundings, and I don't think that even I would be able to survive a horde of them on my own. We don't know, but the high command has been informed of the matter. They somehow found a way to cross from above the heights, which seems to be impossible, except if you have an Airship. These Airships still work with engines that consume the Mist scattered over the air to move, and so they can only move on places where such Mist persist. To fly throught the desert is impossible, since they only could land in there, hiding themselves below the dunes of somewhere in or out of our range, we still don't know how they got in here, but that they are here, we had been told it so.

We will avoid facing the enemy directly for now, or so Sigurd had said. The current strategy is that we spread our camps around the range of this desert, such a long range from another, in a group of at least five or how many of us can get alongside another, sucessfully prepared for what will come next, by surprise or advantage given either by ours or the Alexandrians. We do not know their tactics, so it'll be hard to deduce how are they supposed to damage our defenses, whatever is their goal. But we do know what we need to do, and by now, we just await. The inhabitants of this place may be able to help us, since they are our people as well.

'Know about the conditions of the field, and use them for your advantage. If you don't do, then the enemy shall progress to take your units out, because all kind of warfare is based on utter deception, and who shall be the one to bring deception?'; or so does seem to be written on The Book of Gizamaluk. Well, before the fight, I had gotten some facts about Vube, mainly extracted from researchs belonging to Daguerreo, that shall may be used at our advantage, at least. Due to the sand, which gains and loses heat quickly, high thermal ranges causes the extreme temperatures on daytime and equally low temperatures at night. So it's hot on day and utterly cold at the night. Only a few plants and animals survives at these harsh conditions. Some plants had to adapt their leaves into thorns to waste less water during transpiration; others plants had to lenghten their roots to reach the underground reservoirs of water.

Some animals, adapted their bodies to be able to live without feeding for days, or even months. If those animals stood without food and water, their internal fat storage would sustain them for days. Others, like small rodents, dug subterranean burrows, only hunting after sunset; cold-blooded animals, like reptiles, need the sun's warmth to keep active; birds uses the heatwave that elevates up from the desert to glide throught it and so, the early humanoid rats had to adapt to the harsh environment they lived.

Althought being covered by sand, desert soil is naturally fertile. When an animal dies and the corpse putrefaction starts, carrion animals, like vultures, disrupt and eat the deceased body. Later, the ants take what was left from that carcass to their colonies, inside the earth, where those remains act as a natural fertilizer. Rarely, an underground reservoir or a river beneath the ground runs in the surface, forming a lake in the middle of the desert, the oasis. The presence of water allows plants to grow around the oasis, also attracting animal life. The water coming from the oasis made easier for human beings to survive. From founding their settlements to provide food by artificial irrigation, they lived around the oasis until that water dried. When an oasis dried, they had to move to find another one.

A land that once belonged to our ancestors, Vube now belongs to two of our relatives. They are the Libers and the Cleyrans. The Libers, our distant relatives, are mainly composed by the people that belong to a common group of nomads who live freely at the desert, sharing of similar aspects as our ancestors. As one of the earliest tribal civilizations of Gaia, they were, and still are, bonded together by mutual needs, mainly their survival. They live under a dry environment, whose rainfall precipitation is less than 10' (25cm) by year, unlikely Burmecia, whose annual precipitation varies between 21' to 25' at Spring and Summer season (53,34cm – rounded to 53cm – and 63,5cm, respectively), and between 5' and 15' at Autumn and Winter seasons (13cm and 38cm, both respectively rounded). Their skin tone varies from the grey we still carry on, to a brown varying into a dark to a light cocoa skin, alike the one belonging to a dormouse. They seem to be the only ones who share of these colours, since the entirety of Burmecia's inhabitants only features tones of gray on their skin and fur.

The people of desert learned that the use of large clothing, primarily made of cotton, works as a thermal insulation material, preventing both heat and cold from entering inside. Turbans are used by both males and females to cover their faces during violent sandstorms. With time, naturally, those people were adapted to live here. I saw one of the chief's feet, and that looked more robust than mine. Those feet allowed him to walk freely throught hot sand, as if he almost felt nothing. His eyelashes were wider, to avoid some dust to penetrate into their vision. He almost had no fur, unlike me, a child born in a land whose rain covers an entire pavement and runs along the same as a river.

The Libers also learned to domesticate a few animals, like Mus, who seem to be friendly to his, unlike the wild ones around this continent. As they learned to live throught these harsh conditions, they also learned to develop writing and a language. They write in the sand, before the wind takes away their words, or in a piece of cloth, with the pigments of a red to purple dye, made of the beet that they also eat. Ever since childrem, the Libers write with the finger, or with a piece of wood. They stock the food, mainly grass and leaves, or dates and lychees taken from the trees of a nearby oasis marshes by a Mu taught to do this, and meat from what they killed with the javelins on the bowls made of clay, extracted from the marshes of the oasis as well, turned into bowls by the fire coming from inside the kiln, where they also forge the tip of those javelins, on a similar way as we do today, based on such rudimentar practices.

They can't speak our current language, based on the gathering of stranger's phonemes and letters, who came to Burmecia to estabilish routes of trade, but since we are his descendants, and since some traditions of ancient times are still kept with some of us, their old dialect is understandable. Not complex as today's, but a word and other can be listened and recognized. Unlike our enemy, we had made alliance with the local Libers, even before this conflict between nations came into this, as many times it did happen.

Searching for an explanation of the world around them, these tribes developed the first concepts of religion. Ruled by a tribal chieftain, believed to be blessed by the wisdom and knowledge of the gods, these early groups lived with no laws estabilished. To kept order in the tribes, the members feared the will of their gods since they were children. Each tribe had their our customs, but the belief of several gods, also know as Polytheism, was evident on each of them. Some tribes opted for an early practice of Shinto, by praising the divinities related to the nature forces surrounding them, althought they left nothing written about their religion.

As societes became larger and diverse, the youngest males of each tribe decided to leave their communities to discover more about the world they lived, fullfilling their aim of exploring the lands beyond the desert. Followed by their wives, they decided to started a new society, but an impasse between two major options divided them. One side opted to stay still on a specific place, and the other side decided to be nomadic. Those who become nomadic ones are the ones who founded the current kingdom you live, with or without your father.

Also, I'm sorry to dissapoint you once again, but it's a lie that Chocobos bury their heads on sand when they are scared. Due to the dunes, you can assume their heads are buried beneath the ground, but they aren't. Mostly these Chocobos are feeding themselves with some grass they can find, though Gyshal Greens are their favorite kind of food. Favorite or not, they are dependant of the leaves they can eat, as much as we are dependant of water, either if we live below the clouds, or above the dunes we step.

This heat is dazzling me. The sweat overcomes my body, even inside this tent. One of the Libers brought water to us. By us, I mean Clyde and Bart. They are, besides the only ones who followed me, or had been ordered so, brothers, sons of the Major Brandford, an acquaintance of mine. The skies once blue turn into an orange sky. The sandstorms usually come in the afternoon, from the middle of Vube, where Cleyra and its hid settlement resides. The City of Illusions, as travelers used to call by, Cleyra is vastly different from this, the place where the Libers live.

I was grated by a kid then. He asked me if I wanted to see his grandma, and so I did. I followed him to the house of his, more like an underground shelter, that looked so cold inside, but I couldn't stay in there for so long. That kid was the one who would deliver the water to us at the tent, so I would later take the water from his, this before I came up in front of his grandma, a corpse sitting still in the middle of the room. I... how could I say, I had no words to say, as much as the grandma of his. That body was well preserved for someone who had died a long ago. Unlike us, who carry on the tradition of burying the ones who passed away, the Libers don't bury their relatives. Instead, they use some sort of mummification methods of preservation, such as wrapping pieces of cloth designed for such around their body, and so they let them on the room. Of course, the relatives of such deceased also move the body of his when the food is gone, when there's less for their hunger to be done.

They are also tied in to the water, as much as we. We always had been in search of water, from these times where we lived on this desert as the Libers do, and so do the ones called by Cleyrans. Though they refute being Burmecians as they still believe you and me do, they also are dependant of water, given by the rain of God or not. Now that the dusk is lowering in, I shall receive such cold night, as we had been received by the heat, suffered for receiving such, and now we wish it back, for some reason. Even if we are unsure for such return, unsure of tomorrow, don't worry, because you all are the remaining warmth, not only for me, but for those who came along me.

Hugs for my dear children,

Kisses for my beloved Sophia,

Mr. Prescott Highwind

**...**


	21. Love Comes Tumbling

[♫U2 - Love Comes Tumbling♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZ0wax_8dus)

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"Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye... it also includes the inner pictures of the soul." MUNCH, Edward

**_..._ **

__

_...Lalala lalala, lala la la la..._

_...Lalala lalala, lala la la la..._

_...Lalala lalala, lala la la la..._

_...Lalala lalala, lala la la la..._

_...La la laaa la, la la la laaa lalaaa..._

I'm not the only one there, I know.

You're within me, and I am with you. Many like you are within they, others like your mother. If you could look at their chests as I do. As a country has a space to be filled in by houses, and houses have rooms, and rooms have furnitures, and furnitures have decorations, everything is meant to be filled in, or else, remains empty. But even the empty has something gathered with, like a balloon is filled in by air, so there is no excuse for such emptiness to exist. Well, even when I get fed up, and stuff my stomach, I still feel empty. Not that I am truly empty, but it is because I feel such. To feel empty, and to be empty are unrelated, as much as to feel alive is different from to be alive. You, me, Bart, Jack, Daniel, Clyde... they all are alive, yet what does _that_ mean?

While I am buying some food for Jack and me, your father and other fathers are fighting against the enemy, or at least, pretending to. Pretentions, feelings... we all fight against someone, or something. Against the hunger, I struggle for me and Jack to be alive, while your father struggle for us to be alive as well. I'm glad that you, at least, is alive. I hope you share of this same live you are fighting to remain like this as you grown up. Many like you, unfortunately, don't live for too long as you do. Mostly they are rejected because they don't have the same as you do, or what their mother has or doesn't have, or had with other of his sons.

One of my brothers was rejected by mother, before it even opened its eyes, before it felt the warmth of mother, before mother had given his a birth. I still don't know if it was a brother, or a sister. He, or she, had no name, or a life anymore, unlike father, who had a name, and even went carrying on of such to the bottom of the grave he felt, like a leaf felt on the field the day before his hole was already dug. It was also buried like his father, but instead on the garden, a place where life grows up attached to the dead ones, like this land of a rain that keeps falling as many lifes that had begun there. Mother had planned a life to his, a life without father, but with their both lifes gone, her plans, our plans felt like a sort of waste. A sort of, because in the end, mother and I learned since then that life is funny, but not ha ha... _funny._

...To feel _pain_ , or to feel _sad_? We both shed a tear, as we shed in many days, that become a year; another year, unlike the one we thought to be what we expected to. Another day, and instead of playing with another brother, mother made me another doll. Not another doll, another tear shed. They say only animals feel pain, whereas humans feel sad, feel joy, try to fill in the other by his same joy. Your father filled me in by his joy, and I felt joy, and after a few days without his joy, I felt you. You become my joy, as much as that doll become the same, for me, and mother. She had made it on her own, like many times, but that time was unlike others.

This joy they share may be a proof men like your father left that we are not alone. Thought, why would I? Why would we, if some of us already had a son? Children... the more you have, more prospere your life becomes. By creating new life, you relief yours. So did mother, by making of such rag doll, such child never finished, unlike that doll and each thread that composed its whole. That doll even had a ribbon tied to its tail, like the one in mine and many tails around here, and green buttons sewed alike the eyes and clothes of many of my siblings. Yet, the only remaining thing for it was a name. I never came up with such, but mother did, and so Karellen was given in to me, a gift from mother to daughter.

Of all the dolls made by mother, that one is still with me. Jack used to play with Karellen when he was younger, a little toddler that Karellen was once supposed to be. Jack looked almost exactly as the doll, except my son was the living one. Karellen had its button eyes opened, while Jack learned to open both on his own; the doll had no mouth, Jack tried to eat or put anything on its reach inside the mouth of his, even the doll, whom he had bitten an eye off, almost did, if it wasn't for the strong thread tied within each hole of that one button.

If Jack tore that eye apart and had swallowed it, and if there wasn't anyone there either, certainly we wouldn't know for sure if he would be alive until now. Luckily, that button was engulfed by its saliva and only, as Bart had told me when I came back after another of those days. I was so tired, that I didn't even looked at, or holded of my infant with my arms. That was the result of another hunting, against those Ironites, who can fly as a dragon and breath fire like one as well. Jumping from roof to another roof, still feeling of the pain brought by my first son in the chest, holding of the spear with both hands, or only at those leaps, where I usually ended up striking the skull of it, with the tip of my spear or with my feet, either effective, or used to be. If I wasn't there, many lifes would be gone, but if Bart wasn't there, Jack and only would be gone...

What? Those are shivers, and only. They come with winter, like those heathers. Look how they grown up, in the snow, in the rain, in the storm, they are everywhere. Theresa, your aunt, loves them all. She loves everything, and more of everything. She had gotten so many affairs, and ended up with only one, unlike the petals of heathers she took away from the soil they were raised, to fill in the glass of water. Same heathers taken in her hands on her marriage, scaterred on top of same bed where her children had been given in to this world, a place where the rain washes clean the moss garden. A sanctuary for the souls awaiting to be born, for many, winter means white, and white often means winter; while white is the beginning of all colors, winter is the closure for then all, into a same white. I am currently heading to the market, so I can buy more food supplies, for you, me and Jack as well. Not only me, but others like me as well _...fish...fish_...To think I used to walk around these streets wearing that Dragoon outfit, being knew by the red of the coat, and the spear I once holded with this hand...His spear _...yummy_...

Now I am just another one belonging to this place, even my clothes pretend to say it so _...what do you want_ _...apples...Radishs..._ These women wear of this same cloth as mine, though they don't seem to share of my same name _...what do you want?_...Names and clothes don't fit together, unless they do in some occasions. Was I knew by these people because of the outift and wings I once wore in my body and head? Maybe yes, but shouldn't I say no? _...What do you want?_...My neighbors know me, with or without the Dragoon attached on my outfit, red as the blood of our family _...What do you want?..._ _Apples! Apples!..._ _Radishs! Radishs!_ _...Mild and Green..._

_...What do you want?..._ _What are you afraid of?..._

— Bread.

— How many, my dear?

_...Taste the fish! So yummy!..._ _What about a pennyroyal tea?_ _..._

_...Afraid?..._ _Yummy!..._

— Enough to fill in this chest, please.

_...Radishs! Radishs!_ _...sure its a relaxing tea, my lady..._

_...Hmm! The scent may be bad, but tastes good!..._

_...Afraid?..._

...So, because I am a Crescent that I am knew? Far more gossips surrounds my surname than legends to be told. You can eat a radish as much as you can eat people, though the later is a crime. Far more, it's a sin, like when we become Dragoon Knigths. We couldn't be what men were, this until Joanna, founder of the Crescent clan, came in to do the agreement. Besides a statue given after her demise, they created an order of female knights, knew by Leviathan Knights, whereas the male become the Bahamut Knights. I am a Leviathan Knight, or used to be, this before you came in.

Not that I don't like you, in fact, I like children, yet I never had the time to take care of Jack. If I truly liked his, then this job would be done, and that is a sacrifice I must not commit. I can't live for the sake of only one, though, he is me as well. Me, and Bart too. How I wish for your father to come back soon. I wish he could be here now, but that is just a wish, of an only person. Me, Jack and others of us think the same. Even you may be tired of this wait, but don't worry. Just don't. You are too young to be upset, and too young to share of a hair that keeps falling like the rain.

— So how are you doing, Lenneth? – unlike the man standing at the back of the counter, like many around the market, someone asked how do I feel, or how is my day. On these times, when we are on our own, they must show us some kind of compassion for what we had been throught. To think they are the few ones who stood there... so, about the voice I heard, my dear, it was such voice coming from my back. I didn't know who it was, but certainly she knew me. It wasn't a relative of mine, or Bart's, but sure knew me, like this.

Near my back, there's a woman standing in there. She is like any other Burmecian I knew, this in the first layer. She's not a single woman, thought she seems to be alone, but she ain't or doesn't look like a common figure with another look, a far depth one, yet not enough to estabilish her personality. Prominent details are the basket she's carrying in the left arm, and a little infant on the another. Her face and eyes open wide, a hand softly touching the chest, and a reaction of relief, a brief one, in a single breath, that repeats with time. I can see the trepidation of the legs, the same ones felt by me after Jack came from me. She should had been in bed by now, but she keeps standing like this, even wounded by a knife, feeling such pains, as I do feel a kind of compassion, maybe less than her pain, but at least I feel something, so familiar, yet so near of me.

— Hi – I said. It was pretty basic to say only a single greeting like this. If I, at least, knew her... Now, I should tell her how do I fell, and I must be truthful to her, and myself – I feel fine – sometimes I do, to be fair. Today seems to be the day I shall feel fine, since early morning. Jack once again had no complains about the breakfast and lunch, though he said to me that there was no milk.

That wasn't a complain, since I also had been complaining to myself about it as well. At least, there'll be bread for tomorrow, this if those I had gotten in this basket don't get hard as a rock. They still use to do, ever since those days. I lost one of my teeth when I ate one of these breads; fortunately, it was a milk-tooth, so another grew on its place months after. Now, wasn't I talking to that lady there? Yes, I was. I said a 'hi' earlier, didn't I? She is buying some bread as well, as much as I had done before her.

— Excuse me, but what is your name? – I asked the essential question to that woman I talked with. On an instant, her answer came.

— My name is Sophia – she said, clever as before. She listened to me, even backwards of me, I know she did. It's wrong to not keep listening to others when they do need of your attention, my dear.

But I know you are listening to me, aren't you? You may be sleeping by now, like that newborn kept wrapped in those pieces of clothes, comfortably wiggling such little ears, small like yours. I remember the days I used to walk with Jack around the town on a same way. Only a few times I did it so, because of my duty as a Dragoon. Sometimes, I would hold his with my outfit on, as he used to touch my hair instead of the cold escutcheon hanging on my chest, which I had quite a hard time to take it out to feed his. If Jack could, at least, know of the efforts I had to be able to be his mother and a knight at same time...

— What is his name? – I asked to Sophia, still standing next to me. She already filled in the basket with the breads, as we walked to somewhere else in the market. This place is full of people, prices and lies, but there's also good people of heart, and people who also sell hearts, however.

— Sixty – she said – Sixty Highwind – and later added his, or her surname. I didn't know if it was a boy or a girl, but sounded like a boy's name. Such a name, don't you think? I have a name for you too, though Bart also had gotten a name for you too. I wonder if you'll be a boy or a girl, well, only time will tell, when I hold you into my arms, the same for your father, this if he makes the way back to home, please. Well, of all the people of this market, this woman knews who am I. She spoke 'Lenneth', and only. Such formality could be only heard from my husband, or a few relatives, who also call me by Crescent. Maybe she forgot I was a Crescent, or didn't insisted to tell such. I admit that I'm a bit tired of being called by my surname, and only. When I used to wear the Dragoon helm, together with the entirety of my outfit, that mattered, but now it seems so... so... formal.

Yuck. There are 'Sirs', 'Dukes', 'Kings', 'Queens'... had any of them got mad because of such formality? They are still people, so why shouldn't we pretend they are people, to often call them by their names, instead of 'King Something', why not just 'Something'? However, that's just my opinion. They are proud to be called this way. It's a matter of recognition, since the names of a few are kept, while others are forgotten. Not that I am proud of being a Crescent, sure I am, but I am more than a Dragoon Knight, or more than a female, more than the lady in red, more than the white hair beauty, more than a single mother. I want more, but I don't know the enough; I have limits, but I don't accept such. I was born with this name and blood, and I need to accept of such, because without them... I am nothing. Nothing but someone like mother, taught to raise children ever since I used to play with Karellen, or since Jack used to play with his.

— You used to be a Dragoon Knight, don't you? – Sophia asked to me. Coldly, I took a deep breath, a breath of distress, followed by words of sincerity, or kinda of.

— Yes. I used to be – I promptly answered, looking down with the eyes. No, it's not your fault, my dear, I know it isn't. I am glad that you made your appearance with such evidence. What I once thought to be a disease was nothing more than a new life, the seed that hatched from the love of me and your father. After all the lives I and my spear had taken away with a single hit, you had been striking me in the back, with a pain belonging to same spear, that I am glad to feel, somehow. They can see you plenty by now, instead of what used to be my misery. They now pay attention to yours, instead of my face, my hair, and my clothes.

— Really? – surprised, Sophia briefly spoke. She was one of those persons that used to recognize me as a Dragoon Knight, or so I thought – A Dragoon is always a Dragoon, no matter the situation, ain't I right?

— Yes, you are. But you see–

— Can you do a favour for me? – she interruped what I was about to say. I don't remember, but I was about to say something about pregnancy, which may be a wonderful experience for many, yet a dangerous game for same ones. Prior, it's fine, then the fun stops with the pukes, the scent of lenghts, the... what was it? Oh, that's fine. I am about to do a favour for this Sophia, why not? Before I ask to her what should I do, she raises that basket, full of food taken in from the market, from where we once went, and now we are heading to our homes. I guess bread, cereals and those fruits and truffles are enough for today, though I still need some milk, or else there'll be no chai or what Jack intends to do with such. I shall hold tight the ear of his if trouble happens, but that would be a waste of time, since Jack had done nothing wrong or questionable or relatable to bad behavior lately. He keeps quiet as usual, like he once did.

I own Bart and the amount of gils he left, just in case the unnexpected happened, like it had weeks ago. With his, and other males too, like Sophia's husband too. He doesn't even know of its sixty son, as much as Bart doesn't even know that I am not sick, or deranged. I do feel fine, yet I don't, because Bart doesn't know how do I feel, neither Jack, who doesn't believe in me, just obeys. He needs to, for some reason, maybe because I am the only one left to take care of his, the one who stood with his father mostly than any other, besides himself. I may be Lennie to his, but still I am a Lenneth, in a way.

So, the favour Sophia asked for me was to take her, kinda, heavy basket and hold it until we reached her home. That sure was an easy task, in theory, but practice fooled me again. Now I had to keep carrying on both baskets, counting yours as well, afraid of breaking the column apart, but that was an overreaction of my body, and memories of those times I trained to become a Dragoon Knight. This reminded of the day I had to wear heavier armor as usual, and climb a mountain path to defeat some Grand Dragons, left there by the highest skilled Knights who had immobilized them with the extract of opiates. Though they left many scars on my back, by each time I defeated one of them, I had to wear a pair of rings attached on their body, and then I had to kill another, wear its rings, and another, wear the rings, until my limbs could support. The maximum allowed quantity of rings is equivalent to the strenght of 24 men.

Such hellish challenge that led the life of many into a skull collapsed by the weight of the rings can't be compared to this task of lifting this kind woman's basket and mine, with both hands, in the way back home of ours. We live at the countryside as well, it's such relaxing place, more than the town, maybe even like inside there, my dear. Listen... the rain follow us as well, always had ever since we were born. While I hold of these baskets, Sophia still hold of the infant with both arms by now. She doesn't want to let him go, and why would she? I understand it. I did let Jack go, and I'm sure I won't let you go, since besides Jack, you are the only one there for me to take care of, or to be taken care back in the old days. These and those days, already gone, unlike your father. He may be far away, but only in lenghts stretching these lands, as the sky remains the same leaking ceiling of always.

Finally, whew!... There is Sophia's house, which seems quite a lot alike mine. These structures share of a same shape, of a bell, and same people living in there. Kids, as usual, awaited for their parents or relatives to come back, so they can eat, keep playing with no worries, or talk with the adults, to satisfy their curiosity. Currently, there was none of them, as it seemed to be. Only Sixty was there with Sophia, who carefully opened the door, to allow her and me to come inside. As we stepped from the round marbles of outside to went through the room, once dark but now seem with the candles lit upon the walls that lead from that room to the kitchen on the right, clearly illuminated by the window, as I left those baskets on the table, what a relief... I thought, this until a figure came running downstairs. Those steps, now heard alike the common pitter-patter of a child's legs, belonged to one of Sophia's sons.

— Mommy! – he exclaimed of surprise, as he came running like before, to give a hug, a brief and soft one, on Sophia's legs, who still trembled, but that didn't mattered, as before.

— Where are your brothers, Fratley? – Sophia asked to that infant. Fratley... do I recall such name? Maybe I do.

— They are playing in the field, mommy... – he said, and kept saying, with that characteristic voice belonging to a child like his, and Jack, though my son's voice varies in a certain tone, unlike this younger one. This Fratley... yes, he is one of Jack's friends, I presume. Something I noticed from his is that he swings the knees to the front and back, back and forth, and so repeats. He also looked upon his mother, and me as well. With an only eye often being targeted onto me, as he kept talking with his mom, and her all ears to his, yet she was paying more attention to the baby in her arms than the one who already learned to talk, and how does he talk, for someone of his height. We are both taller than his, yet far different people by design, like him as well.

— ...Fratley – by the instant Sophia interrupted his, after speaking of his name, Fratley had stopped the conversation. He stood quiet, looking at his mother, and only, though his limbs still kept moving, unlike that gaze only directed to his mother, barely blocked by a shards of his long hair, coming from underneath the green cap each boy like him does wear. So he stood in there, awaiting for what seemed to be an order, as usual it seemed to be. I know it, because Jack also share of this same way to deal with my orders, since he already knows when I should give one to his. When I speak of Jack's name, on a same tone Sophia spoke of Fratley's, there is a pressage on the way the name is spoken, as they promptly know what to do next, all by experience. To wear proper clothes, to come to the table for dinner, to get in bed to sleep... these kids already know what to do, and usually they stand quiet, because they haven't achieved such experience.

— Yes, mommy? – he asked. Besides standing in there, looking fixed at mother's eyes, Fratley also asked a single question to his mother. He had no idea of what to do, but ask to the one who told the name of his, on that tone, which other children would be able to decipher easily, as I did already. But Fratley is still young to attain coordenation for what he is supposed to do.

— You said your brothers went to the field, so why don't you call them to come here now?

— Yes, mommy – Fratley said, promptly turning his back and running away from our sight. But before he coult step on, he turned backwards, now looking up to me, with both eyes gazing as much as I – Hey, mommy... Who is this other lady over there?

— Well, this one here is Lenneth – said Sophia, talking to Fratley, yet cuddling of the little one in her arms – You should thank her for being able to help me come back to home, my dear.

— Oh... – he looked towards me, like a sunflower revolving to the nearest ounce of light. For a moment, his face expressed such gratitude, less than what he intended to do, but yet he had found a way to show such – Thanks, Lenneth – he said, as he waved the little hand of his, brief as the smirk given to me, and from me to his as well. So he ran away from the kitchen, to the door, and outside, until the vision of his fainted away fron our sight.

— He sure is a nice kid, isn't it? – Sophia asked me, with a rhetorical look on her eyes – The others are good kids too, though they may age from a time to another... but that's their nature, that once belonged to us as well. Such a pain, yet they are nice with each other, as much as we do. Maybe we'll see one and another soon, don't we, Lenneth? – as I picked up my chest, I decided to left Sophia's house, not before I could say a goodbye to her.

— Yes. Sooner than you think. Bye.

— May Bahamut shall grant you strenght.

Now, before we head to home at least, I need to borrow some milk for me, and Jack. I am a gallon of milk already, but this is only reserved for yours. Once it belonged to Jack, but now he had grown up, and had acquired a taste for other things, and born with some as well. We are guiden by such forces to meet friends, marry each other, have children, all for a sense of security, similar to the one we had while inside the womb, as much as you do by now. But soon, you'll get out of there, but don't worry. When your descent comes, there will be those who won't let you fall, as they hold you close, sharing of the heat, a sense of heat you currently are living with. Besides heat, I'll offer you safety in those arms.

Safety can be found in a gun, in these claws, or at the tip of many javelins, sharp as the jaws of the dragons killed by those. It may be just an instinct, but dragons do kill to find safety for their own species, as much as we do for the sake of our species as well. I used to kill, but now I am breeding of new life, your life. I once breed of Jack's life too, but this time, it feels that I am so close to yours, this is unlike what I felt for Jack, before his birth. There is a first time for everything, or so they say, and a sense of first that only happens once.

You can speak a world, futile for us who already spoke of many, but you'll never feel once again how special such word sounded, only for the first time, and only; you can eat a bowl of soup, either like it or not, and even if you grown up and learn to like such taste, you will never feel the same strange sensation of such flavour being introduced in your mouth, to be swallowed deep into your throat; you can feel the rain running throught your skin, but as soon as you keep walking below it, you lose the sensation of being bothered about it, or what you felt for the first time rain touched upon your nose. You can love a person too, be kissed by they lips, same ones who spoke of your name, be caressed by they hands, be guided by the candle in the darkest of the narrow paths, but either if it was you or they who threw away the keys, even if you meet with another person, you'll always remind of his, or her, for the first time and for what seems to be an eternity.

**...**


	22. How To Cure A Weakling Child

**July 04, 1778**

**XV - VI**

At the front of the door of his house, Jack, son of Bartholomew Brandford and Lenneth Crescent, stands there, sitting along his cousin, Daniel Brandford, also known as Dan, or 'Gappys' by his nearest cousin, the same Jack that is as bored as his. Bored because they had nothing else to do. Before reaching such unnexpected conclusion, they played some marbles, yet they still feel such boredom, like a stranger from another lands also feel when it comes to such land without a shining sun on its full glory. There are things a boy can only do on its own, or when together by same boys. Jack and Dan had done many of these things, and some they are still awaiting to do, either because they are only children, or because only an adult has the height enough to do such thing.

Even with such low height, these kids can climb a tree, thanks to the claws they were born with, and the energy kept into such tiny bodys. Someday, they might climb onto something, or someone else, but until there, they keep playing some marbles, because that's one of the things they thought to do first. There is no winner, or loser yet. A game of marbles is usually played with more than two playes, but since only two of them got along, and with no sight of a third or fourth player anywhere else, they keep playing the same game. While both keep hitting the marbles of each, blue for Jack, and green for Dan, they think for themselves.

**XV - VII**

Time used to went away when these kids played with each other, or when they thought for a moment about something of their interest. There are other boys playing with marbles, and others playing with other balls. At home, or in the distant yard, covered by mud or rain, some kids play a game with an only ball, and eleven boys, while Jack and Dan play a game with many balls, and only two boys. No girls are allowed to play or interact with such games and balls for boys. They never tried, but insisted to play, or else they cried and later come back with mommy, still insisting to be allowed to play such game.

Unlike girls, mothers are serious beings. To think some of them were once as childish as their daughters, thought Jack, remembering of the day a girl, instead of calling her mother, called his own, only because he didn't allowed her to play a game for boys. To call a mother belonging to yours is a thing, but to call Lennneth, whom he refers to fondly as 'Lennie', was a cheap trick. And how cheap it was. Jack never told to his mother, or Lennie as he call her by, and keeps insisting so, what kind of game he didn't allowed that girl to play with his and others like his. When you are a boy, other boys check you out, so Jack lied and said it was marbles instead, like now. Life is a pop of cherry, or so Dan said to his, and of course it was the father of his who said it once, or many times, since many of the children learn from patterns, from repetition, because everything repeats, or insists so, like these cherries eaten or soon to be ate, or what the heck do 'pop' means, or sounds like. Jack still is wondering to this day, as he uses to wonder with everything as well, and what kind of life his uncle Clyde do lead, and if its the same one that belongs to his father as well. Maybe not, he thought.

Speaking about fathers, they usually were were there to give them an advice of what to do. Jack often would hunt some Basilisks with his father, whereas Dan would do the same as well with Clyde, the father of his, also Jack's uncle. Not the only one, but a kind of uncle, an individual they call by 'unique', 'special' to denote such individuality, however Jack only calls Clyde by 'uncle' or 'funny' than such terms. These aren't enough to describe his, he thinks, as he once though of same before. Today, they don't feel such need of killing Basilisks, even if maybe that would be fun, but the fun they are willing to search needs to last, for a bit longer.

**XV - VIII**

So Jack and Dan keep playing marbles, throwing a ball on another, and seeing how they move above a surface of stone, the same where they stand sitting, or laying down, as Jack had moved, unquiet of standing in same position. He ain't a statue, though statues are given more attention than an ordinary as his. Lenneth, went to the market, and sooner or later she will get back home; either way, even if the day would find a way to progress with her comeback, still stood still, as much as it insists to remain into such. That's why people seek a way to break with the habits, do something new, or else, life become such a boredom, like the game Jack and Dan insists to keep playing, unlike adults.

Besides the task given to take care of Jack, Lenneth now found herself to be pregnant, still awaiting for the arriving of the newborn and also for the one who was crucial for its production. So do Jack, for his father, and only. Because there is no such a thing like a kid with two, or many fathers, or so do Dan says otherwise, referring once again to 'Mrs. Bindweed', a lady neighbor of his that had gotten many sons, belonging to many fathers, though her house ain't an orphanage. 'I'm not interested', or 'shut up', as Jack uses to say to Dan, and his 'bullshits', or 'shits', either with the mind of his, or with the lips of his. The mind spoke at the moment, and how often his lips used to... Moving on.

Not that Jack did'nt wanted another brother. Maybe if the brother of his grew up, or so do Jack thought, then he and Gappys would be playing together on these days of marbles. While Jack would taught his brother some words, Dan would share of his Basilisk Hunter techniques, as much as his father had told his how to do. Jack also would be there to teach his young brother about the world they live, and how everything is not funny when it comes to claws, as a good old brother must do, in order to assure the youngs one strenght, both physically and mentally, to endure such situations where a fist seems to be the only way to decide answers. Yes, that would be funny and even an act of responsibility, but what if his father didn't come back? If Bart, daddy, hypothetically failed, and died in sequence.

Such humdrum blew into his mind. Daddy would never fail with his, Jack thought, as much as he won't fail to his. That's a major reason that justifies why he didn't attempted to abandon Lennie. Only a coward would let a female, girl or woman, on their own when they need of another at their most, or so uncle Clyde said to his, sounding alike his own father. But why his father did left? He ain't a coward, Jack thought with conviction, with absolute truth, or so what he knew about his father. He may be a fool who stood with Lennie instead of mother, but he had his own reasons, unlike Jack. Too young to understand, or too old to be treated as a young one, Jack isn't daddy, or daddy isn't Jack. Though they are father and son, a kid and adult, they still are different, or rather similar, on the way they do live.

Well, if daddy never would come back, even if he had all that strenght to his alone, it was hard for Jack to believe into such possibility, but heroes do die, someday or everyday. They are either hid under or between hats, or exposed like statues for them all. Kain, Frigg, Gizamaluk, Cyan, Magnus, Phaedra... those were the names Jack thought, as much as the ones whom Dan said when asked by his cousin names of Kings, Queens and legends that resisted against time, and only. They are dead, but they are knew even by an infant like his, or Dan, or his other cousins. Even the surname of his, Crescent, was knew by other people, associated with a substantial amount of legends, enough to be recognized by the masses.

All of the Crescent knew by others were once Dragoon Knights. Now they are either a few statues, or mainly spears of what they used to be, or unknown relatives from past centuries, buried like any other belonging to same place. Tombstones are recognized by family members, and only, who learned from the old about their location, like a secret treasure map, whose treasure can't be dug however, unlike statues, who are constantly fixed from time after time, day in and day out for those belonging to Kings and their wifes, the Queens, a few of them who are knew for far more than their beauty. Jack's grandpa, the Major Brandford, also had gotten a statue to his, and a tombstone made of silver, that can be found near the Burmecian Palace, where other majors bodies and ashes rests as well.

Sometimes, his daddy is knew by others as the Major's son, like Dan's father as well. Jack wonders if his father, who share of same name as his gramps, will come back, soon or later. Still awaiting, patience often gone to be back another day, the only thing Jack knew about the future was that his brother would be there soon, on the same crib he once used to sleep, to play with that sane doll brought by mother to his, and to be told some lullabies when it comes the time to put an end to be awake. Jack wishes for Lennie to bring a brother to this world, even if she had plans to give the name 'Bart' to his, instead of a sister. Girls aren't funny to play with, either because they are annoying, or because of their mothers. Dan thinks otherwise about the previous quote of his cousin, but Jack doesn't care, as he tells him to shut up and keep playing marbles...

**...**

* * *

[♫Aphex Twin - How To Cure A Weakling Child♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pugC5qZ_SXU&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=43)

* * *

**(Still) July 04, 1778**

**XVI - XII**

****

**...**

— Had some of us won this game _already_? – Gappys asked to me. There is only me to his to answer the question brought by his, as it seems. That kid sure is taking some time to be here, even if the house of his isn't that far from here. This if you count on the legs he, as we, owns.

— No, I don't think so – he can't be somewhere else, playing with other boys, can he? Fratley told us that he would show something to us. Something I wonder why it's taking so much of his and our time as well. This something that supposedly belongs to his father, which once used to belong with other people. Strange, unfamiliar people. From the corner of the dark alley to the corridors shone by the bright sun, that must be truly something valuable to be kept with such security.

— How do we play this game, after all? – once again, a question was asked to me. Another answer is about to be delivered... oh, here we go. Why don't you shut up, Dan? No, that's _too_ formal. What about...

— ...Just be quiet. If we had _any_ rules, then you wouldn't be awaiting for his as I do.

And so Dan obeyed me. Even I had to obey myself, as well. Like fishing, where you can't talk because fish is afraid of our talking, we kept playing this silly game, as silly as a fish afraid of conversation. Fishs are such stupid creatures, if you think about it. They smell bad on purpose, so they can't be eaten, yet we ate them; however, they swin in the lake, in the river, because if we do, we might drown up, yet, these fishes can't live to breathe air, can't survive on the rain, which is also water. Frogs do, but fish doesn't. I smell bad too, but at least, when there's water, Lennie gives me a bath. It's not that bad, after all, though sometimes is, other times is a pleasure, now that I know I am better than those fishs I ate.

Man, I'm so bored that I am thinking about fish to kill some time. Talking about fish, this reminded me of daddy. I used to go fishing with daddy, and I still remember how easy it was to caught some with his silence, and mine as well. We could even caught some with our claws in clear, or dirty water. Nothing seem to have changed, after all. I could be fishing by now, but without daddy? There was a day I almost fell into the lake, no, I did fell in the lake, and I couldn't swin, but daddy was there to caught my hand, or my feet, or my tail, it doesn't matter the limb, but sure he caught me. And holded into me, unlike mother... no, Lennie. She wasn't there, and never had.

Lennie can eat fish, as mother used to tear apart the scales of the dragons she putted on eternal sleep. How I wished to see mother awake, instead of being put on such sleep she used to put on those dragons. I know, I know... To sleep is another of many quotes that means death. That used to work with gramps, but with mother, it didn't had same effect, thought it seems only I do know what happened to mom... Now I know why fish do hate conversations. It's because they would end up drowing on a single talk. Drowing in conversation, drying up in thoughts... As if my brain turned into sand, perhaps it's the effect of insisting for the hours to keep passing, until they reach tomorrow, or another hour. They do pass; faster for others, and slowly to a kind of us, this including Dan, whose brain had turned into sand too. Maybe don't, by watching that amount of earwax at the tip of that nail...

Yuck. I prefer to watch something else, or someone else. When I was younger than this, sure I was, I used to keep watching daddy and mom's faces. This before I could see my own face in the mirror, but before I could, they were my mirror. Lennie is a mirror of mom, though mirrors do have the smudges, like glasses, but it seems nobody cares, nobody that I know. They do care for other things, like Dan, who keeps cleaning himself with those nails. At least, he do have a sense of what it means to be clean, thought that's doubtful, as his smile. _Geez_ , is there something more interesting to keep watching instead of the face of his? Those gaps? The marbles? The tree? The tree nearby my house has a hole, that reminds me of Gappys, and Lennie, for some unknown reason.

...And another ball is threw into another ball. Yeah. _Whew_ , guess who's the champ?... You're right, Jack. Nobody. Ah... Lennie sure is taking too long to come back. Maybe it's the milk, but that ain't my milk. It's for my little brother, and only. I'm thinking about that one kept on those galloons of tin. They are kinda heavy, you see. And cold too, like Lennie. Her gaze sure is cold, yet daddy finds it 'stimulating', or so he said. Maybe it was Dan who said, or intended to, but whatever. It used to stimulate fear onto me, and fear isn't exactly what daddy felt for mom, or still feels for Lennie. If he felt fear, then I wouldn't be born, right? I once asked to them how I was born, and so they told me the same tale, of someone who falls in love so much for another, that a child is born. Who need details, when you have a friend like Dan?

Nobody can make me a fool again, since I do know how a child is born, and made as well. I wonder how adults do learn, since they were once children as we. Maybe there are some other Dans like this one, in a manner of speaking, who offer of this message, this 'wisdom', or what the heck is this supposed to be. More 'stimulating' than her look is that coat, a red coat Lennie wears, pretending to be someone else. Now, speaking of Lennie, she seems more worried with her look of these days than a figure to have fear with from other days. This is what happens when you pretend to be someone else, to the point you become it as a whole. For some reason, I know about it so damn well. I wonder why, but maybe because I kept seeing Lennie day after day, and now I came to realise of such matter. How wonderful things are...

**XVI - I**

Speaking about wonderful... Fratley _sure_ took a long, long way to get in there, didn't he? Well, at least, he sure came here, as he said he would. Good boy. Between a four and a five, one is an odd number, while the other is an even one. Me and Dan are odd, whereas Fratley, my dear friend, besides being a short kid, in height, he's also an odd one, not in age, but on his way of living same age. In fact, he seems to be living his own age further more than we had done once. So, Fratley came in, carrying something more than a piece of cookie crumbling apart, or hard to be broken as a yesterday bread, this because I told his before to get something for us to be shared, to give us some time to waste, or in a few words, a pastime. His voice could be heard from a short distance, as he was singing something alike:

...I say... Eleven...

...You may say... Seven...

...Still, I wish you... a place in Heaven...

I admit it was a quite pleasant melody. It had rhythm, or some kind of dynamic. Well, I'm not that smart to understand why, but it sounded well. Very well to my both ears. Other than his voice, I also noticed that Fratley was constantly putting his both hands into both of his pockets, and he still kept movng those limbs as he uses to do. Then, as he approached further, I saw clearly that he was putting his hands on the pants, scratching underneath those with his little hands. I expect this from itchy people, but what I thought for an instant to be lice on his pants were just crumbles of those cookies he use to eat. It seems he only do eat those, and I still wonder how many fill in the pocket of his. I also wonder if that boy has a sense of cleansing,

— Oi! – he exclaimed, as he kept stepping into the tiny ladder in front of my house, settled above the road, like a single hill on a valley, until he reached those marbles that are placed above the grass, guiding guests and the people who live at these houses, with the shape of bells, or sort of.

— Hi Fratley – I said. For some reason, I was calm, yet upset of his absence. I could blame his for this boredom, yet I couldn't.

— Why did you took so long? – Dan asked, raising from the same place where his knees rested, and trembled as his whole. It's cold in there, like Dan's gaze towards Frattie. He was kind of angry. Still is upset, or intends to with that eye and its lashes. If he ever gazed at me like that... Now that I see how Dan is gazing at Fratley with those eyes, it kinda reminded me of someone. Myself, me, to be fair. Dan seems like me when I used to gaze at his, on those times. Maybe yesterday, or last week, but there was a time I looked at his on same way he's looking at that boy.

— Oh... well... – Fratley couldn't even say a word, or even move. Well, he still kept moving as usually, but now it seemed that his entire body was itchy, unlike before, where such was restricted to his pants. His eyes looked at the gaze delivered by Dan, still as the smile of his own face. A smile of distress, if I recall, not a kind that belonged to the face of that kid, but Dan's.

— Wait – I said, as I noticed something peculiar. Besides noticing such thing, I also interrupted them, both my intentions. Even with such gaze, Dan didn't noticed what I saw at the back of Fratley's right ear. It was something greenish, not blending with same green as the cap wore by his; that object had a colour of a green like the grass from home, standing below both of their, even mine by now – what is this?

— This is my lucky clover! – Fratley exclaimed, pointing with his index to the clover he took from somewhere else, and had put on the back of that ear. I mean, he could have decided to keep carrying on that clover with one of his hands, or even in one of his pockets, but these are my thoughts, belonging to my head. This kid's head is another thing. I took that lucky clover from the back of its right ear, to look at it closer. Then, I shaked my head in disbelief,

— No, Fratley. That ain't a lucky clover – I said, as I pointed with my fingers to its leaves, and deduce the obvious – See... there's only three leaves, like any kind of clover.

— Four-leafed clovers are rare, so that's why they are rare, and lucky as well – said Dan, as the infant's face shone below me, with such expression on his face. It's the same face of his, but with a confidence on its smile, and on his own words about to be spoke as well.

— Well, people who like these three-leafed clovers are also rare too. So this mean they're lucky too? – yes, in a kind of way. That's what I was about to say to Fratley, but instead, I had no words to say. I thought about them, but I couldn't spell then with my teeth and the touch of my tongue beneath them. Besides an awkward silence, followed by an awkward head movement, to the left to the right, as if I was awaiting for someone else besides Lennie, and he just kept smiling at me. I smiled too, but not like his. Maybe that silence from before, this same silence, was an answer, alike that smile. His smile, mine doesn't count. So I put back that three-leaf clover on the back of the ear it now belonged.

As I returned that clover back to where it now belonged, since clovers belong to the soil, not at the back of the ears, something felt out of his cap. It was a rectangle-shaped card, purple at the back, but with a deciption of a beast on it's front, or so what seemed to be the front of it. Dan took that card away from my arm, and looked further at same card, as if he knew what it meant to be, or maybe not, since curiosity appeared before his eyes more than the knowledge of what that card was supposed to be.

— Hey – Dan said – What is this card for? – he asked, looking at the one who had gotten it alongside the hat all along.

— Daddy call this game by Quad Mist – said Fratley, who took out the hat of his, only to show us a bag. Carefully, he opened that bag, and showed us it's contents. It was full of a bunch of other cards, and other beasts as well – but some call it by Tetra Master.

— Quad Mist?... – Dan had his doubts, same as mine – we never heard of such game as this one.

— If it's better than marbles... then, let's try playing it.

**XV - II**

When rain started pouring down more than softly as before, Dan headed at the front of my house's door to collect his marbles and put then on a bag, similar to the one where those Tetra Master's cards resides, althought a bit smaller than the previous one, me and Fratley headed to the kitchen, since card games are usually played by people on tables, where the cards rests, the same could be said for the drinks, the gils, but those are adult games. I never saw daddy playing such games, I guess, but many do it so. These people sit around a table, keep talking, playing, drinking, shouting names, or so Dan told me about the time he saw uncle Clyde's side, the one I didn't knew about, but Dan sure know. Not only uncle Clyde, but other people as well do have their sides. I, as well, also share of a kind side, unlike the one they mostly see from my gaze, my fist as well, this side kept obscured by many, unlike me, who does show of such for them all, unlike uncle Clyde.

— Well, let's see. 3P60... 0P00... – I putted all the cards on the table, ready to play this game, not before I learned of its rules. Funny... I recall I asked Fratley to get some passtime to be shared for us, and so he did. I knew he is a good pal. I could even say he is as close as a friend to me. Dan is my cousin, so he doesn't count. Daddy would, if he was there. Maybe daddy know how to play this game, but now I'm on my own, so... There are numbers below these cards. Each one seems to be different, as I thought for a moment. I mean, all cards sure are different, yet there are ones who share of same number, like, I found a whole of '0P00' tagged on four different kind of beasts, all of them unique beasts, yet they had the same number, or tags – 1M10... 2P10...

— Damn! How in the heck are we supposed to play this game!? – man, how lazy was the cost of production for each one of these cards? Couldn't they afford some time to explain what these tags mean, since they do follow a pattern, like this: Number (0-9); Letter (A to Z); Number (0-9); Number (0-9) **;** As it seems, each number and letter is random, but not, as seem with 0P00, and 1M10. A whole of 0P00 says it all. Ok. So, there are these tags, they all obey this –NLNN– pattern, and that's fine. But now, I wonder what those mean, since you can't put something out of context and expect to share of some, even without an explanation. Explanation...

— How are we suppose to play this mess, Frattie? I asked, as I had no answers to be spoken to solve of this puzzle. As it seems, nobody else had as well. This until Dan came from outside, after he took all the marbles of his. He heard me, of course, as he was about to deliver an answer to us.

— Oh, I know how! – Dan shouted, as he took some of the cards to the hand of his. Forgive me, Fratley, if one of your cards remain a bit grubby... – Fang eats Goblin, Goblin eats Fang, Skeleton can't eat...

— No, that's bullshit enough – I said to Dan – anyone can be eaten, or be the one who eats, being the skeleton the one who had been eaten already, though he's still hungry even dead. _Shesh..._

— I know! – said Fratley – the card with the highest tag wins! – that sounded alright, but...

— No. That ain't possible, or fair enough for us – let's see... as far as I know, the highest value for each –NLNN– belongs to the 4P44 card, the one with the picture of a Grand Dragon. I know that Grand Dragons are strong, menacing, Lennie too, so if 4P44 is the ultimate card, anyone who had gotten it would win the game already, and that ain't funny. We want to play this game for hours, or before Lennie come back, with the milk, of course. The milk within the galloon, to be sure – say, Fratley... how your daddy supposedly played this game? Did he taught you how to play, at least? – I asked to his, since he was the one who brought these cards to ours.

— No – he said, but with such sincerity I couldn't afford to deliver a punch to his face. It would alter that kind expression of his, that seemed to have an effect on me, or each one near his sight. If Dan, at least, could do the same, he wouldn't lose many of his teeth. Yet, I had to raise my fist, still I could somehow, but instead of pulling a punch, I gently took out the cap of his, to softly touch my hand upon his face, because I'm kind like his too. Well, sometimes... 'good boy', or so do my hand intended to say. I could offer Fratley a cigar, but I don't think he do smoke. Neither me.

— Hey, Jack... Can't we just begin the begin already? – asked Dan. I would ask the same as well, yet I wanted someone other than me to answer and solve of such conflict. At least, not only me was there – So... Why don't we create our own rules and play on our way? It can be better this way, don't you think? – said Dan, now sitting on a chair in front of me. For once, he said something I had to agree with. Fratley, as well.

— So, let's play on _our own way_ , shall we? – I said, ready to play.

— Can I play too? – oddly, Fratley asked. It was odd, because he was the one who brought these cards at first place. I guess his brothers never had given him a chance to play with then. I don't know, but that sounds clearly next to the truth, if there is one.

— Of course. Why not? – I asked, as he already knew the answer. So we divided all cards, a total of 52, between three of us. Of course, some cards remained, but mostly they are repeated ones, not unique like the rest. The cards were delivered backwards by me, to avoid some other conflict coming from Gappys, or even Fratley's, about how unfair was I. What is unfair, if we are playing on our own rules? Is it really unfair for us to not even know how to play Tetra Master rightfully? I don't think so. The original game might be boring, as everyone in this world uses to play with then. Fratley even told of a tournament of same game that happens at the Dark City of Treno, or so his father told to his, as he used so, when not traveling around this continent we call by world.

So restricted are the rules, like the walls of this house, the glass from the window, the blanket of each night, the hands of those who put these clothes on us, as they make other clothes to the ones who are already there, or are meant to be there. Same could be said of Lennie, who seems to only care about my brother, I wish his to be a brother. If our world is already restricted enough, so it's the sister's side, mother's side, even Lennie's side. But if there are people who like three-leafed clovers like Frattie, then surely there are people who play Tetra Master significantly different, outside the rules. So did mom, when she become a Dragoon Knight. That used to be a manner to play outside the rules, but since it has now become a family thing, it has become a rule that, at least, one of us become a Dragoon as well, like mom did. And so did Lennie.

Speaking about rules... each one of us seems to be playing the card game as we had been told how, not by the ones who came up with the rules first than us, but by whatever our mind tell us to do, rightfully creating our own rules, our own game, our own fun. It seems to be working, thought I am about to say otherwise. While I had chosed to play a guessing game, where I guess which kind of beast is in the card, Dan seems to be playing the food game, where I throw a card on the table, a random one, as he threw another, random as well, and in the end he sees both cards as the veridct of 'this eats that' comes up, whereas Fratley... well, he seems to be playing with an only card, despite the amount of cards given to his. There is a single Chocobo card being held by the hand of his, as I could see when he flipped it sometimes, like a doll walking to somewhere else, but the table had its limits, unlike his idea of game.

**XV - III**

Anyway...

— ...Do you have any Ironites? – I asked to Dan.

— Yes... – said Dan, throwing an Ironite card at my direction – Call! – he shouted next, as we threw random cards at the table.

— Choco... – sometimes, that word seemed to be the only thing spoke by Frattie. This, and when he uses tp drop down the card of his at the table, as he takes that three-leafed clover from the back of the ear to feed 'Choco', offering such like a Gyshal Green to that yellow bird of his. Other than such things, I don't know.

Aimlessly wandering to the left and right, moving like the limbs of its owner, Choco keeps traveling, sometimes even 'flying' outside the table's border, like how Dan's dirt uses to fly outside the border of its nose at the tip of the finger. Used to, since he's inside my house, and there's no place in there for him to drop down that gob. Not only because of me, but because of Lennie, whom he thinks is cute. Maybe he said beautiful instead, but I am talking about Dan, and I do know about the way he uses to talk about Lennie.

— I won – just as I wasn't expecting, Dan said such words.

— What!? How!? – he caught me up this time.

— You see... Skeleton against Fang, Skeleton wins, of course – he said, trying to find an explanation of why he had won, instead of me – the one who has no flesh wons over the one who have what the have not insists to have. Understood? – that kind of explanation didn't amused me, as I insisted to find a way of winning against Dan, since I can't win against Fratley. I don't even know how am I suppose to win both games, at first place, so I keep trying as I can, with my rules. Dan took that card

— So... do you have any Skeletons? – I asked, intenting of taking that card with me, but for each coin flipped, there might be Heads, but Tails had struck me this time, like how Dan's tail waved, as he laughed against me, and my tail, silent as I.

— Hah ha. Nice try, but you cannot take my Skeleton – Dan said, holding and showing of the same card I was about to take from his.

— Why not? I ask which kind of card you do have, and then I take it.

— These are your rules – he said, now pointing at the Skeleton card with his index, as if I didn't paid enough attention to that thing – you can't take the one who ate, thought you can take back your Fang, but you can't play with same Fang again, since he's dead – He sure is mocking me, isn't he? At least, Frattie wouldn't ever do such thing, since he's on his own, with Choco.

— It's actually pretty boring to keep winning, you see... – I said to Dan, who had won over five times, counting now. He sure won then and now, yet he still keeps playing same game of his, as I do, with my own game – you seem to be enjoying such boredom, if I may say.

— Trying to bluff me? – he asked, with a cocky tone – I actually like to win... Call! – I dropped another random card, before Dan could. Then, he flipped such cards, and come to same verdict. No surprises – I won. Ironite eats tiny Goblin, no matter how big the sword of his.

— See? You always win, no matter what...

— I won too – said Fratley, besides calling the name of Choco, as before.

— You won? How? – I asked, as I had turned my head to his direction.

— I got Choco. I won! – I wondered for an instant what was supposed to be that kind of game Frattie had been playing all along. But like before, I couldn't even understand why he sounded too serious, and sincere as well, to claim such accomplishment. Maybe he just said that he won because Dan kept spelling the same word each time he ate one of my cards. Maybe...

— Why do you want to win, Jack? Didn't you said that is boring to keep winning?

— I already lost many things... – I didn't even had time to prepare an answer for Dan. I just said what came up, and this was what prominently I had been forced to tell them, as much as they were forced to look at my direction. I felt a kind of recognition with their look, as much as they also felt of such recognition as well. Not only my daddy has been gone to lenghts away from me, but their fathers as well. Then, we blinked, as the door opened on its own. We thought to have opened by itself, but it was just the one I once was expecting mostly. It was Lennie, carrying of a basket with one of her hands, and a same baby on her chest.

— How are you doing, Jack? – she said, looking at the table where I, Dan and Fratley were sitting, playing different games with same cards. They grated Lennie with a 'Hi', thought to be a single for a moment, until it was followed by a 'Mrs. Lenneth' by Dan, and a hand waving gently by Fratley.

— I'm fine – I said, promptly taking that basket to be carried with my arms, and to be left above the table, on the side of where the cards resided. I know I only did it because of how much Lennie took to be here, at this time. There must be a galloon of milk awaiting at outside, and since mostly of then are heavy, which requires both hands to be raised, or one, but that was before my brother came to her chest, so maybe if I try to be kind, she'll pour down some milk earlier than I thought, for me, and her as well.

— Thanks, Jack – she spoke, before she came outside, to raise that galloon with both of her hands, That basket sure could be raised by her as well while lifting of same galloon in both arms, but there is always time to make things, or seemingly make then easier as they should. _Chomp!..._ That's the sound of a mouth eating of an apple, clearly heard by any ear belonging to this room, seem by their eyes belonging to such faces as well.

— Don't you see, Jack? You won your mother's confidence over you – Dan said, holding of those cards he took away, as this apple is slowly taken apart by my jaw, torn apart into crumbles by my teeth, swallowed into my throat, unlike these words I choose.

— _Munch!..._ But she ain't my mom. _Chomp!..._ and what I had won from her isn't confidence. It's just a matter of _Burp!..._ a matter of survival.

— ...Survival of who? – asked Fratley. His eyes stared at me, a fixed gaze belonging to a flatworm's eyes. Eveb underneath the cap and strands of hair of his, they could be seen. He, like his eyes and ears, may had been caught by surprise after I told his that Lennie ain't my mom – well, if Lenneth ain't your mom, then why do you insist to be there, with her?

— I dunno. Maybe it's because of daddy. I do not want to dissapoint his.

— Oh, daddy... it's because of daddy that you are here?

— Well... – for some reason, I had a waste of words. I wanted to be quiet, on my own, just like daddy, but how could I, in the middle of the conversation. I couldn't. I had to talk, with that boy, who wanted to talk. Since then, he had been talking, or less than, with a card by the name of Choco, instead of a rat like me by the name of Jack. Now he seemed to be talking with me, or trying so, since I do not want to talk anymore, yet I wanted they to watch me. But now that she came back, there'll be no more worries about it. Who need to be worried, when there's milk to be given to yours?

Daddy... Frattie also seems to address his father by such name as well. Mostly the children do the same, after all. They are taught to speak dad, as much as we are taught to speak mom with our lips, followed by their lips, used to speak with us, and kiss us as well. Lennie didn't even gave me a sign of gratitude for being a patient kid this day. I even allowed myself to be taken in to a bath this morning, only to see if she cared. Maybe she did, and still does. There'll be milk for this day and onwards, so that seems to be enough than a kiss. It seems to be, not that is rightfully truthfully enough. 'A matter of survival', I said; 'Survival of who?' he asked. If it's right, or if it's wrong... it doesn't matter, Jack. Why don't you try to play with another rules, beyond your owns? Why you don't try to be so kind with...

Mom. If I could say it on her face... just on that face. That face... had I ever noticed when someone cries, yet a tear isn't even shed? Maybe I didn't. Maybe they don't, as a tear can be mistaken by a drop of rain. There is no rain falling from the ceiling, there is no sweating of my efforts, yet I am sheding of a tear for such effort, such rule that is to wherever you're sad, try to shed a tear. I only tried, and I think I thought I say myself try so many damn times ago, but the clock still keeps moving forward, or downward as its arrows, and I, yet the silence remains still, as I try to be still as well. I tried. I tried. I tried.

I didn't tried enough. _Slu-u-u-urp..._

**XIX - II**

**...**


	23. Further

''He who cannot obey himself will be commanded. That is the nature of living creatures.'' NIETZCHE, Friedrich

"For after all what is man in nature? A nothing in relation to infinity, all in relation to nothing(...)" PASCAL, Blaise

"...Year 0. Gaia had its moments of glory, when the first civilizations were being developed and organized, from a primitive community of farmers to wide urban centers, powered by the production of artifacts and the emergence of the first commercial relationships(...) Market concepts, know as Trade and Currency, date from that time. Living at the lowest parts of the Mist Continent, the early human inhabitants of the planet suffered the constant risk of invasions, mainly from the inhuman Vastitas, who would later become Burmecians." Excerpt taken from Encyclopaedia Alexander, volume VIII

"It's foolish to believe the only way of prosperity is to sacrifice our own brothers. You're sacrifing part of yourself as well. The only way to clean your bloody soul is to follow the path of the floating river." Excerpt of the Words of Kain, the Mediator, also first King of Burmecia, orally passed from generation to generation.

"All kind of warfare is utterly based on deception." Excerpt taken from a revised script of the Book of Gizamaluk, dated from year 1300.

"Deception is the key that opens many doors. My sons had been brought to this world of deception by same deception as well." Excerpt taken from Clyde Brandford

* * *

[♫Autechre - Further♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvqSzRCLvEQ&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=45)

* * *

**July 05, 1778**

**The Funeral March**

**Early Morning**

**...**

****

— Oi! Get your filthy hands off my desert!

Those where the last words uttered by Komakino, if I recall. This before gunpowder struck at his chest, same part I thought to be hollow once. Gunpowder... To think such is now killing us. Once upon a time, fireworks were fired at the cloudly skies of home; whenever a King had been crowned, whenever a King or someone important had a marriage, whenever a son/daugther of the King was born. They never fired such fireworks when a King died, thought, they do a march instead. Not only for the King, but those as important as his, like father. Drums were played, and each beat strucked our ears, loudly than a single firework, but less than how our ears had been struck by the news. Either sad, or neither bad, because father died in the field, and that's were he should had died, instead of letting this world as a Major, sick in bed, like mother.

Only when father was alive, the fireworks were alive. But the same cannot be said for Komakino. Even when father was a child, he was old like now, or even more. Even with their guns, these Alexandrians still find a way to stab us, either with with shots, or with the tips of those knives. Thiefs would never play fair, this if it's fair to pour some sand on their gaze, but instead of our eyes, they pour sand on our wounds, more than enough. And mostly, this is our sand that is being threw away into the wounds, and these wounds had been made by us as well, or ordered to be made by the one who's above us, yet below Bahamut.

'God's watching us from a distance?' Don't make me laugh, Sigurd. Well, I sincerely can't, right now. But even if I did, briefly, someone else would notice, like Bart, here on my left, same direction his wife often uses to hold of his arm, and that spear, and maybe something else, judgind how she holds that spear, made by her husband as well. We cross many lenghts to achieve love, or a peace of mind, don't we? We offer gifs, invitations to stroll around the lake, all done for us to have a chance to later make out keenly, as I did, Bart too, Prescott as well, but the same cannot be said for Komakino, judging how he used to ergue that sword... Speaking about swords, we all queued in this linear row, except Sigurd, who's in front of the pile of wood, we all lift the tip of our swords, or daggers, or knives, something with a sharp blade that shines within the range of the sun's light, up into the further we could touch the azure of the skies, same color belonging to many of our outfits, except Komakino, who isn't wearing nothing. He sure seems gray like before, heh he... Ouch!

With some words of 'he was a courageous one', 'an honest Burmecian', and 'this medal of honor shall be granted to yours' is the cherry of the cheriest cake. Giving a medal to Komakino is as redundant as someone who is digging to find some dirt; medals are already spread on his body, alike every children's body is meant to be infected by lices or chickenpox once in a lifetime. That old crook already had gotten tones of medals dedicated to his honour, if there was one. Maybe a medal of tolerance would fit better, or a medal of 'oldest alive' would be alright. But medals don't make you itchy, despite some of them being uncomfortable, and the risk of the tip some had gotten to be stuck in your skin, like a wood splinter in your finger, but instead of the finger, your chest is wounded. However, these people are proud of receiving medals.

Maybe I'm just jealous that I had never gotten any kind of medal. I have, at least, a wife, my dear Cynthia, whom I call by other names as well, this when we are alone, cuddling in the room, and those hands, my hands, her ears... they say you cannot raise the dead, so I'd rather reserve such thoughts for later. About the relationship between me and Cynthia, whom I miss so much, like any other man there misses their wifes, and children as result. I wasn't planning to have children, but it just happened, like how Komakino just died. Komakino was the son of another commander, a family of commanders, unlike my father, the Major Brandford, whose family, my family, is alike a tree that share of many twigs. I can't even imagine Komakino as a kid, but I guess he was already old when born, unlike my sons, who were so little, skinny, furless, yet adorable.

After some words of self-praising, which I might include in my will to be uttered in a near future, here, on that pile of dry wood, they'll burn that damned's corpse for good. I wonder why, since Komakino could be mummified instead... or maybe he's already mummified? Heh. Even Bart may had agree, don't he? Maybe not. People often smile when they are upset, or worried, than they are happy with something. Even children force their smile sometimes. What we think to be cheerful beings are deceptful ones as well. Besides the fake smiles, mostly the children keep asking not due to their annoyance, if there's such, but because they need to satisfy their doubts, or so Prescott told me before, when one of his sons asked to his about the labour pains, and if sex hurted mother. Geez, I guess I would never be able to tell the difference between pain and pleasure on a satisfying way, but Prescott sure did. He's a cooled out person, even when on a fight, unlike many here...

Bart is my mirror, sure isn't he?

**...**

**The Post-Funeral Chess Match**

**Afternoon**

**...**

Gbr: NB1-C3

Sig: PE7-E5

— Moving one of your horses first, my Highness? – Sigurd said, as he moved one of his pawns, jumping two squares instead of one, as pawns can do on their first round, and only. Afterwards, pawns can only move, or jump one square, and always to the front square. They can only take another piece if such is located on a square adjacent to the front square, either left or right.

(pause)

Gbr: NG1-F3

Sig: NB8-C6

— Another Horse? – Sigurd asked, rhetorically, after he settled a Horse belonging to his side of the table, as I did before, twice. He even moved as fast as I did. Well, even if I had the opportunity to take out that Pawn he left on E5 on a first hit, since I could move the Horse from before right were that piece was lying, I couldn't. Horses are the utmost important pieces of chess. Well, each piece belonging to chess is important, even Pawns, this if you can reach the end of the other player's border. Chess sure is a game of lure and deception...

(pause)

Gbr: PD2-D4

(pause)

(long pause)

Sig: PE5xD4

Sigurd captured a pawn of mine, the same who I moved prior its demise. I was careless, or maybe not. Pawns are easily the ones who get caught first on chess. Paws can't be taken, or be 'killed', as I used to say when I was a kid, that much. At least, one or two or three of their kind must stay at the table, so they can reach the other player's border, Sigurd this time, and always had been. I played this game firstly with him, like many of the things I did first. I used to play outside the rules, making bishops move like the Queen, make the King jump on a Rook so he could move like a Rook does, make the Pawn go backwards or even attack and 'kill' one of Sigurd's pieces with a single move to the square in front of the Pawn, or make a Horse move in 'L', 'M' and 'N' patterns.

Sigurd just let it go on such times, these who happened before I grew up, and understood of every single rule, of Chess and anything I used to do. Speaking about rules, Sigurd, as much as me, can block the Pawns from reaching the border with a piece in front of the square where the Pawn was supposed to keep moving, simply because if you reach the border of the black pieces, as I am playing with white ones, you can get a piece of our side, once taken from yours, back to be played and used against the side who had made such piece a prisoner. For example, if Sigurd took a Horse from me, I could move my Pawn to the end of the Black border and take back that Horse, or other piece taken from the White infantry. Kinda like a war, mostly they stood on same way. Until now, there's no such piece taken from me, so I don't need to move further those Paws, this if I want to free the Bishops, but not yet.

Gbr: NF3xD4

Sig: BF8-B4

I took that Pawn belonging to Sigurd with a Horse of mine, as he moved that Bishop of his. From a distance, a curtain of smoke raises in the air, as white yet grey like the skin belonging to the body, or what was one, resting over that pile of wood, burnt by the bright sun, who brought of same fire and ashes posteriory. Commander Komakino's funeral just happened, minutes ago. Everyone was expecting it to happen, prior these weeks. Even when I was young, the commander was already old like now. Even older than Sigurd, or father, or everyone else. His body has been cremated instead of being mummified. He was already mummified, some would say, or think as I do. There are things better thought to be spoken, as I learned with Sigurd, who learned from father.

Gbr: PF2-F4

(pause)

(pause)

Sig: BB4xC3+

(pause)

Gbr: PB2xC3

(long pause)

Sig: NC6-B8

**...**

**Ransom On The Sand**

**Afternoon/Dusk**

**...**

****

— How odd... – Bart said, as he stood erect, turning back after watching the both sides his neck could turn, with a look on his face belonging to someone who carry on more than doubts, but suspicions. Unsatisfied, Bart watches everything, even me, with an unpleasant vision, unlike the breeze that comes after, and before the sandstorm. We had left our camp to do a walk, as we check if there's some stranger presence over the horizon we gaze. Thought, we are strangers of this land as well, even if such land belongs to our ancestors. Yet, I do feel in a kind of home.

— What is it, Bart? – I asked to his, yet he didn't gave me an answer. Yet. He turned his back once again, watching the trace of footprints left by us. Only us, I thought, Bart too, yet he denied of such circumstance, calmly upset.

— I don't know, Prescott, but I am with this kind of sensation since we left the tent. It's like we had been followed by someone all along.

— That's strange – Bart was somehow right. Something was off, wrong. Chills sent throught my spine, I was beginning to act like his, when suddenly, somehow, I also felt that we had been followed, no, still being followed. It's a kind of situtation where most of the people claim to be just our imagination, yet it doesn't. How could somebody follow us throught this desert? Well, anyone could. However, why couldn't either me, or Bart, see footprints on the sand, that's the question.

It was then that the wind blew further. What was once a mere breeze was starting to become a sandstorm. I and Bart went running to stay behind the nearest dune we could find. Maybe the sandstorm from before had cleaned all his footprints, as it did with ours, on seconds. Now it became almost impossible for someone to keep following us, this before the sandstorm became slighter. From marks left by our feets to small holes, sand who almost filled in our eyes, we could see the skies once again, as before. With the dusk arriving out of the orange afternoon, scorching hands becoming colder, and the twin sattelites wandering in the skies, I guess it was about time to go back to our tent.

This before Bart stood still. He refused to walk, unlike me, who had been walking towards the place my compass told me to be the southeast, where I could find Clyde, and the tent he had been taking care of, alongside the Libers, who had been taking care of us as well, tied by more than familiarity. Bart ain't the kind of reckless man, so I turned my back, and from a distance, mere 5 meters away from his, atop a dune higher than the one where we stood away from the sandstorm of before, I saw his, and something else, the something we had been afraid of. A crimson bat came flying, being blew by the wind, until it landed atop that dune, near Bart. It must had been such that alarmed his, and me, by consequence.

— So we were being watched and afraid of a CRAPPY MAGIC CARPET!? – I shouted to Bart, who stood above same bat. I think that Bart could hear me from such distance with my common voice, but instead I had changed my tone, a tone that I do not often direct people with such, only when I am truly pissed off. Not even my kids are that kind of to bee annoyed with.

— It can't be... this thing, can it? – he said, about to pull out that crimson piece of cloth, a rather peculiar one, even from such distance, who become shorter as I walked, again, to same place. That bat didn't caught my attention of sudden, besides the crimson alike blood I saw as the color of such. Maybe it belonged to some Liber, who had lost it in the middle of the sandstorm, strong as the tidal waves of the sea. A cloth who seemingly had been following us at our backs... Heh, I briefly showed a smirk. Tsk, tsk... Briefly, I said, this before I felt it again. Something was, once again, off. To a world where ships seems to be flying in the skies, and houses with spider-like legs moving around foreign lands, a living bat is kinda doubtful. The doubt is gone if I consider the bat isn't the living one, but... Oh my...

— ...Watch out, Bart! – I shouted, but it was too late. No wonder why that cloth, besides a life for his own, told by the strange yet familiar motion of a human figure in distress, had such weight, even for Bart's arms, who holded both of them in thick air, this before a sharp knife's blade crossed throught the bat, letting a cut throught his right arm's sleeve and skin, where such blade had gotten stuck, and a 'GRAAAARGH!' yell had been made, to be cleary heard from a distance, lenghts away from mine. A yell made by Bart's lips, who spoke of the pain, flowing into same arm and coming from the bottom of his soul as well, and by the figure who lied behind the curtains, unseen by us all along. Who would doubt of an assassin hid under a wandering bat?

No other pain mattered to Bart, besides the one coming from the knife stuck at his arm. As his body felt from above the dune to its lowest point, the neck belonging to his body seemed to had been turning at the back belonging to his, alike a fossile carved on a hard stone, who presumably died of agony. Bart didn't died yet, this only if he, or someone else, took out that blade from his arm. If it was the throat of his that had been hurt, even by a slight hit, then Bart would be gone already, a fate said otherwise by his constant yell, and shivers that followed of same yell, into same disturbing waves that made the body of his tremble, as I could see when I reached him.

No high amount of blood poured down, only a few slivers of red felt into the sand, but mostly they stood flowing from the wound to where gravity pulled then out of that arm. That blade must had hitten the bone, because of how it was truly stuck on that arm. I couldn't forgive, still I can't, of what happened since that moment, with Bart, and mostly his. It could had been me who had been hurt instead. But that didn't mattered, since I was about to be hurt more than now by his, even without the weapon that used to belong on that putrid arm.

Before Bart took that cloth with his own hands, that assassin had been hid underneath such dune, where that cloth once were lying above. Fascinating, like how the sleeveless of armor figure, revealed to be a man by the daylight still, the same that stood above us walked throught the sand, the dunes, without letting a single step, moving around like the wind, fast like a breeze, as told by the leap he took, to end up falling in both feet, alike a cat, or an experienced acrobat. However, of acrobat, he had nothing to share with. Dressed in black as a messenger of death, carrying on of the unseen wings of Malphas, who guided his to us, Tommy Violence, or Zephyr as the way many call the name of his, the name he prefers to be called as well; an adequate name for someone who share of both light feet.

— Before you kill me, and this man... would you please consider what should happen next? – I asked. There was no answer to be delivered, as told by the gaze of his. A gaze of an utter determination to kill us, barehanded or not. When I fight, I often feel my muscles stiff, my blood crossing faster my veins, the lungs breathing more than usual, as I could see from his as well. An average man in height, and weight as well, Zephyr stood before me, the only one near his who stood still, on both legs. He expected me to fall like Bart, or even fall on his knees, if I needed so. But I had no time to do of such courtesy, since I didn't worried about it. All I had been worrying about, from that moment and onwards, was about Bart's safety, but not before I engaged into a conversation. You must be respectful to someone who can kill you, Mrs. Highwind.

While that man, that assassin, stood moving around in front of me, without letting a single print on the tand, I stood in a fighting stance, still adopted until today by Dragoon Knights, and some special units of the army. It's both an offensive and defensive stance, as I may be able to avoid an attack coming from any direction, by pouncing into a direction contrary to where the attack might come from, with speed on my side. Thought, this armor is kinda heavy, yet soft. So I took out the metals and leather of my uniform, throwing them right under my feet.

— Is it a threat? – Zephyr asked, and I had no answer to give to his. It sounded like a threat, I may admit, but the one who came with the threat first was his – because I do not care. I am an assassin, after all. I had been sent by those above me, like many times ago. I am rewarded by what I do, and I am proud of what I do, for my sake, and their sake.

— Right, my dear assassin – I said, tryin to not upset his further – I know, that your job's prospects are to kill those who you had been paid to. People of this world are paid to do many things, some aren't even paid after all, yet they still keep working. With this job of yours, you may be able to sustain yourself, or more than yourself. I do have a family, as much as you too have as well. If not, then you do consider the concept of being a member of a group, in bloodline, kinship, or just what do we call by mutual need.

— All I need is to kill a member of your species for today, and tomorrow as well. That's what I had been told to do – he said, looking at me with a distaste on his mouth, unlike the eyes, who only stared at me. A look that was grated of my presence into both eyes of his, who reflected of my image into them, same for the blade stuck on Bart's arm, who reflected of his concerns. Don't worry, Bart. Just hang on for a while. I know how to deal with those scumbags. Mostly they lose against me when playing of a Quad Mist on the darkest of the alleys belonging to each Kingdom I had made a trip into. Not only they do lose in the card game, but they also are fooled by my kind face and skinny limbs.

— You are sure of a tomorrow where your job is done for good, Zephyr... It seems you do not accept, or even consider of another possibility to happen instead, don't you?

— And why would I bother? – he said, stretching of his fingers, and closing them to form a fist, and so he repeats. He must be preparing to jump into me, so he could suffocate my neck, blocking the flow of blood to my head, besides forcing my lungs to stop the breathing process, as my heart stops beating, my arms vainly try to take those hands out of my neck, unlike those legs numb already, as the whole of my body, when my vision darkens, alike the dusk arriving sooner than I expected... A slow death, worse and more painful than a death brought by a single stab in the neck. Victims of burning buildings mostly die due to suffocation than being burned alive; same goes for those who climb the highest heights, where the snow also burns alike the fire.

I thought this for a moment. A single moment that felt like a minute. I knew, from that moment onwards, that I couldn't die yet. Bart, as well, wasn't ready yet to knock the Weltall's door. The same couldn't be said for that assassin, who somehow hadn't killed us yet. A better assassin would be done with us already, so I had a storm of ideas. Such thing happens mostly when I am on danger, like now.

— You're taking too long, my dear assassin – I said, as I abruptly threw away my own dagger, whom I had kept on its sheath all along – we, Highwinds, are known for traveling such long distances, but not for solving of personal vendettas. They blacken the soul, as much as they blind both eyes, as much as you do insist to remain blind, because that's the job of an assassin, after all. Nothing against, I know you don't do this because it's fun. No kind of job is funny, though; I guess you could take my blade, and end this at once. It make things more easier, as much as you insist for them to be.

— I won't take this dagger of yours, but if you insist to die already... – he said, and only. These few words could had sounded menacingly to someone else, but I had no worries, except Bart, who only moaned, and had no eyes to see both of us. And why would he? Instead, all attention of his was paid to that knife, and the pain still crossing the arm of his, or even beyond, since his entire body has already been overtaken by same pain. Even my body could feel of his pain, unlike that assassin, and how careless was he.

That assassin was willing to kill me, and show of his moves as well. After I threw away my knife, oferring of ration for the dog, he jumped to later crouch in the sand, moving alike a wagon's wheel. I guessed he was a kind of acrobat, and exhibitionist as well. Then, as Zephyr took that dagger from where it layed, sand carried on by my right hand flew right throught both of his eyes, or threw by me into his eyes, to where I gave a kick with my joint afterwards, when I had the opportunity of holding his shoulders to deliver that kick at the right angle, who had made his vertebra briefly turn, on the same way Bart turned when falling from the top of the dune. I do expected of a counterattack, but what I didn't expected was a straight punch delivered by his into my chin, coming from below like a whale emerging to the surface, and I the boat who almost sank. My nose bleeded, but at least it didn't broke.

The pain didn't mattered, and the same goes to Zephyr, or not. Unlike me, it seemed that he didn't felt anything. Nothing. Not even a bit of pain, or a kind of expression that suggested of such pain. This if frustation could be considered a signal of pain, thought. I mean, he should had felt some pain, don't he? As my head slowly recovers from this dazzling commited by the impact of his fist, I am able to perceive the face of the assassin in details, even with the fist of his above my face, about to be crushed, or so that seems to be the intention of his. That leather boot, as black as the outfit of his, didn't prevented me to see that face, if that should be called by face.

Zephyr's face is full of scars. Not only single scars that resembles clear lines, as random mistakes commited by a black eyeliner. In fact, that face of his had less skin than scars left, presumably by Zephyr himself. It is as if all the scars of his body, and even soul, if there's one, had been gathered into his face, and only. There's a few of them on his naked arm, thought, but those resemble more the cuts of a blade, not that I guessed his own face's scars had been made by the cuts of a knife as well. Jigsaw pieces that felt apart from the table seems to be a more adequate description about Zephyr's face, and this feature being mostly noticeable around the eyes of his, where the raw meat has been exposed, in the shape of wings, yet, for some reason, he doesn't feel the pain, even on such place with skin tore apart. The sand may be burning the skin and gaze of his, yet no pain seems to be felt. That's a kinda of stubborn assassin, if I may say, or maybe not, just be quiet for this remark...

— Enough already. Your tricks won't work with me anymore – Zephyr said, as he stood with the feet of his above my face, pressing futher as half of my head is covered by sand, unlike the whole of that man's face, who just ignores it. Zephyr couldn't hold me into thin air, as Bart did with his, but could kill me right now, on a way a tomato is squeezed, or so one of my kids had done, ending up covered by its seeds and smithereens. I imagined myself into such tomato, who had been eaten later that night, drank within the soup. Damn... I thought. I thought again, and everything changed, back to my control. It needed to.

— Heh – I smirked, purposefully. It seemed that I could talk, even with half of my face swollen by the sand – why you do keep doing this? Only because you are an assassin, it doesn't mean that an assassin is someone that kills. It's just a word, don't you know? Had been you who wrote for all people that someone who kills is meant to be called by 'assassin'?

— What the hell do you think you are doing? Another trick, I see... It doesn't work, my pal. It won't – of course it worked. I caught your attention with an uncoherent triviality, after all.

— Then why do you insist to hear me? You seem to share of a curious sight, for an assassin. Am I a kind of victim to be appreciated, or what? – I asked, staring at his, on a way unlike his. His eyes penetrated into mine's, like the fear a beast naturally instigate on its victims, before they became his flesh.

— Morbid curiosity of my part, you see. People say many funny things when they are about to die. Some are entertaining, others don't, some don't even utter a word... A sort of desperation move, like yours. There's no way you can't convince me to not kill you, right now.

— You had the opportunity to kill me many times ago, even the opportunity to kill my friend Bart was wasted by you – I said, reluctantly trying to split from his hands, carefully trying to move, without him noticing of such movement. Yet, he noticed of my voice, and only did – you can kill me now, so why do you insist to waste such time? Now, answer me: how many people had been killed by you until now?

— Had you ever made an estimate of how many times you have breathed in your life? – I had a short vision of Clyde saying the same thing, and that was rather strange, yet truthful to the way Clyde do often talk. Either way, I can't be distracted by his world. He should be distracted by mine's instead. Just a bit further...

— You seem to find pleasure at killing, seen the way you speak of the matter so gratifyingly of doing it – I said, now realizing for once why is taking so long for me to die already. Not that I want to die right now – you are proud of being a blade artist, don't you are?

— I enjoy murder as much as you Burmecians do – he answered, with same cynicism from before. Maybe he and Clyde could know each other. Now I see he's not the only cynical here...

— Had you ever killed a Burmecian before?

— Of course. This if you count those rats who live at the sewers, but yes, I did kill some. Mostly they were immigrants, denizens who mostly inhabit the outskirts of Lindblum. Some are rich, some are not, but that doesn't matter to me, althought I am paid by those who hired me for the 'service, I also steal some of my victim's most precious treasures. It's useless for the dead to carry on of money, because they can't spent on afterlife, and... – as he kept talking, like I predicted, I carefully moved my left foot, right where my dagger had been lying, trying to hold it's tip with my toes. I had been trained to do it so, and I never imagined that I would do it on this kind of situation. Just a bit, and you'll be fine, Bart. I guess he can't hear anyone else. It's like he's already dead, since the moans coming from his lips stopped. Please, keep hanging on, in the name of Bahamut.

— Which kind of treasures? – I asked, to extend his fault of attention towards my feet, to instead pull it on my words, spoken by the lips above my feet. Almost there...

— You know, money, furnitures, dresses... Heh he. A girl with a sweet dress. I met her once, and only. She and her parents, whom I had to kill, were once alike you, and your species. Rats wearing clothes, or at least, mostly they wore, like her. With her parents dead, those who I had been paid to take care of, I told you that the dead have no need for treasures, as much as dead parents do not need to take care of their living child as well – bastard. Rotten bastard. Son of a rotten bastard, rotten down the core. How could you... I don't know if I should grit my jaw of angry, or if I should cry with same anger. I choose to do neither.

I can't let him see throught my anger, or throught my pain; those are my weaknesses, easily to be exploited further. I can't even wonder how many ways he had found to take those lifes. or ruin then as a whole. Truth is, the truth hurts. It's a painful aching that goes deep within a heart, and it goes on and on, until it stops. But how could you, a reckless machine, understand of such? He can't feel pain, nor even cry, or feel of this same aching we, and those you were ordered to kill, felt, and still feel, like Bart here, and me as well.

Even assassins share of some honor, unlike Zephyr, who had been programmed to not allow this interference to inflict a number '2' in his own binary system. Maybe those holes, if there's a right word to describe such, on his face were marks left by desperate souls, who had been killed by his. That's a possibility, and I may agree it's a real one, even if there's a bit of overreaction coming from my bottom.

— How many assassins had they hired to kill our units? – I asked, and that was my last question to this 'person' above me.

— Why are you asking such? – he tried to intimidate me, once again. As I know, he is already a failure of both human being and character – if you do want to know, before I turn your skull and brains into mincemeat, I should tell you that I was the only one hired by the ones you call by Alexandrians to take care of you, Burmecians. They do despise your entirety, as much as I do despise them.

— ...The only one?

**...**

**The Post-Funeral Chess Match: Aftermath**

**Afternoon/Dusk**

**...**

— A Castle may be a special move, but that doesn't mean that you need to sacrifice many pieces of your side to be able to do a single castle. As a King you may be someday, you must know the meaning of each piece. Not only they are in this table for your safety, but the victory that should follow

— Sheesh... – I lost. I know I did. Even when I had done the Castle move with a Rook and a King, Sigurd found a way to take as many pieces as he could, and a way to keep his Horses. Horses are the worst chess pieces to be kept at the table, because you can do anything with a 'L' movement. Not even the Queen I caught from Sigurd can do 'L' shaped movements across the table. The Queen, on chess, is an amalgame of a Rook and a Bishop, while the Queen is just another Pawn, but unlike many Paws, the King is protected by the other pieces. I won't even bother to see those pieces aligned once again. There's a Horse, a Bishop, and the Queen, as the King is left on his own at the border, where he can't escape, and some insignificant While Pawns, who cannot do anything since they had been blocked by other Black Paws of Sigurd, who I thought to have blocked first. This kind of situation would never happen when I was a kid...

— What is bothering you, my Majesty? – Sigurd asked, after we kept playing same game for a while, moving our pieces into each square, 64 in total, as time somehow found a way to move on.

— It's just that... not that I lost for you (again), but... I just miss home.

— You miss home? – he asked again. I know I wasn't fooling Sigurd, neither he thought of same possibility. It has been a few days, but I do wish to come back to home. This place is so much dried up already, unlike my spirit, and my homeland – my Majesty... Do you miss Burmecia, or do you miss the Palace? – that question struck me abruptly. Mostly I've spent my life at the walls surrounding same Palace I was born, being raised by this same man in front of me, yet... I just miss the easy life I had. Not that I do not want to return home. Sure, all of us want the same as well, though. But who else is expecting me at home? My brother, who despises me; my parents, already gone; my people, who don't even know me, besides the name 'Prince'?

The ones who sure are awaiting for me, or used to do, were Edgar's sons, or so they are in a blood matter. I am also their uncle, in a blood matter, but I don't count our blood as the only factor of raising them to become adults. Before, they used to look away from me, but now I realised that they only did it so when their father, or the shadow of same, came across themselves. Their sons must had thought I was like his, but my actions said otherwise, with the days we've spent, when Edgar remained on the throne, even out of same sit. But that brief week happened before I had been invited to come to this place, ending up away from Edgar and their sonst sight, on same way our father had been brought to the field.

Edgar had never the time to take care of his sons, but only their hatred against me, and who can say he is doing it already, once again? We all do the same again, I know. It's part of the blood as well, and the skills such blood is submitted to endure with. Or so I keep asking complicated questions on an easy way. 'Easy questions, to easy answers'; neither are easier, as I thought it would be once again easy to 'win' against Sigurd.

**...**

**Justice Is Might**

**Dusk**

...

— Heh he he he he...

Puff, puff... Damn. I woke up, so sudden after I heard that laugh. Gravity started to pull my wounded arm, on same way it pulled me when I was over the edge, until I felt from that dune, to be kept lying in there. That laugh... It belonged to Prescott, as I could barely see, due to his face being covered by a boot, belonging to that same man who stabbed this arm.

— What's so funny to you to keep laughing like that – that man above Prescott asked, looking keenly at Prescott, who just kept laughing, as if he had no other words to say. But I was too careless to admit of such possibility. In fact, Prescott seemed to share of many thoughts, who would later become words, rightfully chosen by his to be uttered, on the right time. Argh... I wish I could be able to do something, instead of just being a witness of their enduring conflict.

— Funny, isn't it? – he asked, already sentient of what he was about to say, or so I could hear from that confident voice – of all the assassins, scums of this world, do the Alexandrians just needed to hire you? Now I get it. I got the joke that's you; the joke those Alexandrians already found before me. Well, you are either lucky or too arbitraty for reaching me first than the others. I enjoy these kind of situtations, in a way that are a risk to my life, yet, I do not feel such rish, neither yours. It must be very tough to be an assassin hired to kill, don't you think? I do not think, because I can't. You must had been sent by those Alexandrians. Mostly they despise us, you know. They have many reasons to despise us, as much as we do against them, but to be fair, I am not a single Burmecian, my champ. In fact, I'm a half-child of Cleyra; that's why I had been so peaceful with your demeanor until now, but did you forgot already that I'm also a child of Burmecia...

It was then that I noticed, beyond Prescott's words, that one of his feet, wth my toes, succesfully was able to hold of his own dagger, whom Prescott stabbed the foot of that assassin, or so Prescott called that man by such name. He had other names to refer to his as well, or so his concern told me. After stabbing the foot of that man, his equilibrium felt apart, just as both of us predicted, and then, Prescott proceeded to jump into that man, as both rolled up in the sand, until Prescott had put his own hands around the neck of Zephyr, the name of that assassin, who stabbed my arm, I recall further in my own anger, felt less than the one belonging to Prescott, who I once thought to be a calm person, but such persons would never press with such force the neck of someone, to... suffocate his? What the hell are you doing!?

I also didn't expected this. Sure, I would expect to Prescott do something else than stab that man's leg, but suffocate that man to a certain death is something...

— Stop... you... weak... weakling! Weak-ling! – Zephyr pleaded, but those were shallow pleads, and more bottomless threats of his to Prescott, who didn't bothered to stop. Barely, that assassin said a thing, yet I could hear his sentences.

— And why would I care to stop, Zephyr? – Prescott said, or asked. If he did asked, then why expect an answer? So, he said, expecting nothing else than his victory –those last moments of yours... Can you see them? it's time to settle the one thing you've been searching all along at once. You, who had been wandering throught these lands, spreading of the horror of these same weapons you pretended to stab at at us. Once, you stabbed them at innocents, and once again, did of the same. This hatred of yours, this anger you feel heating beneath your skin... it's painful, isn't it? Or, is it rather scarier? You should be, like anyone else, Fear is the key. We all feel fear, it's part of our nature, the nature of all beings, plants and animals. This fear is universal, it can't be expressed by words, it can't be understood by a single manner. You... you, off all beings, can feel fear, and you can't admit it, can you?

— I... don't follow... your orders... you filthy rat...

— And who do you follow, those who pay you and only them?

— I...can't feel fear... I-I am... fearless... I... am... the fear...

— Yes, you're right. You ARE the fear. You had been made to be such. But, is that who you truly are? Who has been the one who told you to be such? Was it your creator, the one who gave you the name Tommy, or Zephyr as you prefer to be called by? A reason to kill doesn't exist by yourself, Hellship. They, the society, your family, those who insist to hire you, told you to be this. This fear, the unnexpected we feel, tied with no boundaries across this universe... you are it, and had been told and instructed to be.

— ...nghh...

— And what do you win when your dirty job is done? A recognition of their part. Not only Alexandria, and the ones who follow of his way claps their mettalic hands each time this spectacle done by yours is finished into the same way you had been ordered to, but they see into you an unique potential, or intend to behind the curtains. Thanks to their relationships estabilished between other kingdom and themselves, Alexandria could had hired as many assassins, or 'hunters', they could in a single day, but to avoid this mistake of leading a harm to your obssesion with such individuality you share only with you, this 'talent' of kill was kept exclustive to yours, because each one of us carries on a weakness. No one is allowed to be perfect in this material world. Whoever who created such world, such space... it never allowed the beings that reside to be perfect.

— ...grrr...

— Heh. After all this talk, all you can do is 'grunt'? Had you realised the loss of your own words against mine's? Or do you never talked to anyone besides those who paid you to do of such dirty job? Do the Alexandrian commanders talked to you face to face, or they just ordered you to do a favor for them? You never dissapointed their orders, don't you? It's because you feared to be not recognized, left behind by them? Why can't you be recognized beyond this murder machine? Fact is, your will, this 'resolve' to agree on others is failing with you. In just a single generation, you'll be forgotten, vanished into the void you allowed to be taken in. If you believe a 'Zephyr' is a 'Zephyr', no matter the place this same element is kept, so be it.

**— D...d-dirty rODent... wHen I Am DOnE with yOu... yoUr nAme w-will be al-l-l arOunD t-th-the world... to s-s-Ay nOthiNg of your eArs, SnOut, TaiL... and SPLEEN!...**

Those were the last words uttered by Zephyr, before I could hear a 'CRACK!' coming from the sound of this bones. With his own hands, Prescott broke that neck, as much as he broke that man apart. After he had done such thing, Prescott Highwind finally lifted up, stooding on his both feet on same ground he layed for a while, and the same couldn't be said for that assassin, whom the fellow Burmecian looked in despise, and somehow, same despise had overcome the image of himself as well.

**— Can't you understand? This world we live may be a trash heap, or a pile of shit that stinks for those with noses. But now, consider this as your surgery table, and you... you should call me by Surgeon instead.**

**...**


	24. An Cat Dubh

[♫U2 - An Cat Dubh/Into The Heart♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F76cn6tp3yw&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=47)

* * *

**July 05, 1778**

**...**

Funny how I am rather impressed about the way Lennie insists to act like mother used to do.

I woke up earlier in this morning, not that I wanted to, but the pressure of morning inside me told it so. After squeezing the lemon out of my vein, I came to the bed to sleep once again, and I holded of my pillow until I heard of a delightful voice, the same who told me a lullaby yesterday, who also pulled me out of the bed, whom Lennie had covered with an extra blanket later that night, for so I could sleep well.

For breakfast, I had been feeded by bread, milk and I even enjoyed the taste of oats in my mouth; when I was about to go outside, Lennie holded of my hand, as we walked up in the stairways, and so she changed my clothes, althought they do look like the same as yesterday, except that they had been washed and put all together in the cloth line, who hangs outside my house as much as a tree and something Lennie calls by kailyard also lies there. Although the rain waters a bit of our clothes hanging in that cord, they would be watered anyway, but somehow, they sure went dry in there, maybe due to the wind.

She also tightened my loose ribbon, not so much to prevent a later gangrene, and sudden decay of my dead tail. I never saw it happen with my both eyes, but imagination deserves a praise to create such image. And, like any mother does, Lennie told me to not talk with, follow or believe on strangers. By stranger, she refers to anyone else, besides me. No, I don't think so, because everyone would be a strange, even my cousin Dan, or my dear Fratley. I guess they aren't stranger people anymore, since Lennie knows about then, or better, their moms.

If so, that's fine for us. I am currently heading to somewhere else; just wandering here, there, up, down, left, right... I know there won't be strangers to be afraid of anywhere I go, since other people who Lennie knows are keeping an eye on me, and us as well. When I used to head to Dan's house, his mother kept an eye on both of us, if not the older brother of his. However, Lennie didn't said anything about these men who wear of such armors. Not Dragoon Knights, but officers of the King, members of the Royal Guard, who had been walking around the kingdom these days.

They had been interrogating us, kids, recently. I came across five of them since now, and they all asked the same question, and if I recall, it was something alike: 'Do you think those who passed away come back to life?', or so do I remember, this before I struck with another one of these guys, interrogating another child as well. Unlike other adults, they aren't strangers to be afraid of, but to be trusted instead. They are Royal Guards anyway, followers of a code, unlike many of us. I do follow of a code as well, though I do not seem to be a kind of help for those who need of a hand. These adults think we are the helpless ones, after all we had been throught. We even had been born as helpless people, to be taken care by their arms, until we could hold onto anything else with ours, besides themselves. This doesn't only apply on our arms and only, but the entirety of us.

Before I went in there, I saw a couple and a baby on the arms of the woman, presumably his mother, or so he and everyone else had been told of. They, counting the presumed father, or the male hanging with that lady, forcibly trying to make that infant, younger than an infant who learned to walk, and talk as result, to speak 'mama' out of his throat, made to digest of his mother's milk primarily. I may be a bit jealous, though. Either due of that mother, who resembled the one I had, in a way, or mostly because that baby and his mother had a father and a husband to share with, a few of a kind who stood in these lands. Now, back to the 'yes' game, since no children until now uttered a single 'no', a Royal Guard stood before a child I knew, though the hat of his was gone. It was Fratley, who stumbled across same guard, who asked him the question I had been told to answer before.

Dan also came up across a guard like that one, or so he said when I came across his as well. His father, uncle Clyde, was also a member of Royal Guard, before he became a baker, and that sounds silly, or either smarter than I might be able to understand. Either way, I wasn't, and still I am not interested to talk or play with his, I just want to be on my own, but there's no such a thing as 'own' in a kingdom of roads connected to houses, and friends connected to other friends, like a tree share of twigs, leaves, sometimes flowers, fruits, seeds... and so it goes on, like how Gappys teeth keep falling each day, less than mine. My tooth felt yesterday, so I had put it under my pillow. Dan also did the same, as he said to me he expected to see that bastard mouse to come up and take that tooth of his, but before he could see anything, he felt asleep.

It wasn't the first time Dan did such thing. I also did the same, but I felt asleep too. It must had been a kind of sleep potion or the darkness that closed both eyes of mine later that night, or maybe it was Lennie, who had blown that candle, after a kiss on my forehead, a cold kiss, unlike the bed I stood, unlike the bed my brother resides. When I woke up, it was gone, from my mouth, and from my sight, unlike Lennie, who was there, telling me to get up, and so I did. Before, she used to tell me to get up as well, but on another tone, of distress, and those eyelashes kinda made me get up as soon as possible, together with that curve on her mouth, and those arms freed of being crossed, as if they were about to slap my butt, unlike this morning, when those arms were crossed on her chest, a huge chest by now.

**...**

****

I woke up earlier this morning, a cold day outside this blurred window, once smudged by my own breath, who I used to clean, or diminish the dirt brought by the air, if there's such. The more I clean, more this window gets blurry, though I can see what happens outside on either ways. Rain, and its people, who travel across many lenghts, on same way rain keeps pouring down from the highest heights, beneath the clouds, who either stay still, or move slowly as others, alike the kids and the adults who follow, or try so, of the little ones. At least, I can distinguish both with my eyes, suffering of restless blinks, and each moment I see the darkness, or the crimson that comes on each night, when I close my eyes looking at the candle, I might want to lay down on this same bed, on same way as I did yesterday, though I may be able to sleep, unlike before.

The veins I see into the mirror, red unlike the blueish ones belonging to these legs, as I can see with the gaiters off, and this right arm, crushed by the pillow of feathers and this head who attempted to rest, alike these both feet, who lured the rhythm and heat of a tribal dance, who I pleasantly agreed to be done, even if such had taken away my sleep, but not my comfort on bed, althought these strands of a messed white hair, once wrapped into my neck like tendrils, said otherwise, as they usually do when not brushed to my back, where their tip might tickle, but a tickle is less than a discomfort I usually felt these days, or nights. Yet, unlike many of my parts, my head seems backwards, because it doesn't feel nothing of the morning addiction, that strucks each one who had ever gotten a living being in the chest once. Mostly they speak of nauseas, althought my mouth is dry, unlike the toilet I filled in later that night, same night I tried to to sleep into, unlike you there.

These and other disorders told me, and now their aftermath came for me to realise, that I must rest, but I cannot sleep, even if I and my body kinda want to, telling me to go to bed on ways more exclusive than singles, and spontaneous, yawns. My flaccid ears, once crestfallen as this chin, who felt when I took a look at the nails of my feet, lifted up, as that spear used to remain so, not hanging on the wall, but in this left hand, the hand that used to ergue those who felt with a single touch. Same could be said to Bart, as a whole. Whenever I felt, he was there to give me a hand of support, as much as I did used to be a support of this Kingdom, but now, it seems I must be the support for the one whom I had given of such, yet not enough.

Forget about funny cravings, Lenneth, since the bad aftertaste still persists deep into your throat, tasteless for anything else. Remember when you were afraid of doors, that seemed to be about to hit your stomach in any moment, of the weight of your family duty as a Dragoon Knight, stood on what once was the coat of arms you wore in the chest, seemingly about to collapse and expurge of a life like a butcher's knife?

My future seemed static, as now, alike the position I stood on same static bed, same bed I decided to lie for a while once again, same bed I used, and still I do, lie in both ways. 'Don't worry', these were his drooling words, soft as the pillow my head is lying above, and the other pillow I'm holding tightly, alike how Bart used to hold me, into the nights, or in mornings like this one. Unlike this pillow, he whispered to my both ears, sounding alike my own thoughts, as he looked at me in the eye, to later be kissing my innermost lips of love, same love he shared when touching upon my hand, comfortably caressing with his fingers, until they got to hold the entirety of my palm, our fists kept close, alike how men threat each other by pulling fists to be able to harm each other.

Bart would never harm me, yet a pleasant harm was delivered by his touch, by his closure, and by the trust I had of his, more important than his trust on me. Over the edge, the red of the Crescent blood didn't mattered, for the first time, or when mean seasons arrived, or used to. That thing screamed, as I screamed as well, nailed on same bed. Tears belonged to cries, I thought, as that thing kept screaming, like his flesh was set ablaze by the cold of her outside. The contact of the Cleyran nursemaid's hands, who once touched of dry sand to watery skins, wasn't enough for that thing to stop throwing tantrums, even on such age, if there was piece of navel string still belonging to his would rotten in a few days, unlike his mother, luckily well, as you can see, or will see one of these days, alike how Jack opened his eyes to me, that morning, and this morning as well.

**...**

I look up at Lennie's eyelashes today, and only with them, I could deduce how she had changed, or how do I changed, soft as a pillow. Those eyes shared of same concern as the day belonging to before, as if she was about to cry, or as if she already had shed a tear, away from my sight, daddy's sight. Well, an eye-mote also makes people cry as well. Speaking about tears, mostly these children who were interrogated cried as well. Seemingly, by result, most of them said a single 'yes', some took a while to say something, that ended up with a 'yes', followed by 'please', and often a tantrum, that resulted in a tear to be shed, in both eyes and pants. I said 'yes' too, though. Just a single 'yes', and nothing else, and I don't recall ever seeing someone saying 'no', but I guess that there's always a head backwards, like Fratley.

— I'll only answer to you if you take that hat up there – before an answer could be given to that guard, another were delivered by Fratley. It wasn't the kind of answer that I do often hear, or heard about, or a type of answer that you may expect someone to utter. I may agree that most of us lose many things, like hats, yet there's always a place to wonder where such object had been lost. I wonder how Fratley's hat went in there, atop that tree, judging the size of that tree, and that kid; between a nail and a drawing pin, same could be said to his and that guard's height, and me as well.

— Can't you take that hat by yourself, kid? – the guard seemed to be not so fully of patience this day. They never appear to be patient anyway; however, that's part of their duty to be able to help the helpless ones, same rule for the Dragoon Knights to obey. About that hat, whom the tree holded on its twigs, I could perceive that same question of mine, who still wondered how that hat supposedly came there, had been briefly struck into the mind of that guard, or so I could see in his face, barely due to that iron helm of his. Maybe a throw wasn't enough, judging the size of Fratley as a whole, more than the arms of his, but kids can do anything, and I am such proof. But I ain't Fratley, yet I wished I could be, in a way.

— I'm afraid of heights – he said, and what else would he say? If I had that height, I would fear heights as well, althought ants, who are smaller than his, do not care about heights. Well, what else would the tall guard do, other than take that kid's hat? Either way, as the guard climbed up that tree, like an ant in search of a leaf, whose tree used to share of many, I came near Fratley, who didn't even noticed me, well, he sure did, with a quick gaze, and a smirk too, both who later paid fully attention to the guard, above us. For some reason, when the guard reached that twig, that hat suddenly moved, but maybe it was just the wind, or so I may agree to think. Fratley didn't even bothered, as I did otherwise.

— Here, take it – the guard said, after he threw that hat from the highest spot where he could be standing, atop that tree. Instead of Fratley, I was the one who took the hat of his. Not that I had been mistaken by his, but anyway, I am a kid as well, and also someone else who was there to take that hat, if Fratley couldn't. A matter of luck, to be said. Then, the guard and his claws gathered closer to the trunk, where they once had been to climb up that tree, but now they were being used to do the opposite. After he came down, to stand before us, into the tree or not, he demanded an answer for his question, or so other guards like his had done before.

— Now, would you care to answer me this: Do you believe that someone who passed away will come back to life? – he asked, for Fratley this time. Maybe he wanted to ask the same for me as well, but by hearing the words of his, I could only presume that the question had been directed by one of us, and since I had answered such before, and since it was Fratley who had struck with this guard before I did, then I can only say that it was him who needed to answer the question. He sure is taking some time to say something, doesn't he?

— You mean... if someone who had died will come back alive? – Fratley asked, on a way more clever than the guard could be. They all had asked to us the same question, not even mentioning the word 'death', but a single 'pass away'; well, sure I and Dan had taught those Basilisks to easily pass away, as easy as it is to fool a child, other than a kind of me, to say so.

— Yes, that's the question: If someone who passed away will be alive once again, yes or no? – At this moment, I already had said 'yes', like Dan said too, althought I am convinced that I just said a single 'yes', only so that the conversation between I and the guard would be over already. I mean, besides answering this exact question, I had been interrogated to answer many questions beyond a single 'yes' or 'no' choice, like when I ssaid my name was Jack, and still is, the guard asked my surname as well, or 'Jack of what', as he clearly said.

I took a time to answer that, this until he took the ribbon Lennie tied into me, only to see half of her name inscribed at the tip of my tail, or so that guard did with a hundred of Jacks, if there's such also asked me if I wanted to be a Dragoon Knight, alike how mother was once, and I said nothing instead, but a 'maybe'. Instead of answering the guard, Fratley just stared to his face, like someone would do on a conversation, however no words had been spoken yet. Only thoughts, but these can only be shared to ourselves. He may be thinking about delivering the answer only at this moment, since he was occupied and concerned about that hat who stood in that tree more than the question brought in by the guard, only awaiting for him to say something, and more than my presence as well, as I am only perceived by his look because of the hat I'm still holding with both hands.

— Uh... well... Mister... What should I say? – and why do you ask?

— Just say what you believe to be the rightfull answer.

— But... I can't lie, can I? – do you lie? 'The children who lie won't go to paradise', or so the rhyme says. Just answer the guard, my dear Fratley.

— I'll know if you're lying, or not.

— But what if I convince you so much of a lie that you may agree to be the truth?

— Not that I'm not prepared, but... I had been trying to find some bugs, you see – that's enough. I'm tired of holding this hat, as much as I am tired of standing in there, as much as I expect something-AAAAH!... No, not this. A single butterfly, before a crowd, came from underneath the hat of his. What a silly thing to be afraid of... what the heck!? Butterflies, in the rain? No, under the hat? Oh, now I see. Maybe those butterfly had been caught by Fratley, by the hat of his, instead of a net, or an empty jelly jar, or whatever comes to the mind, even a hat may work, and sure did. They must had been gathered by his, and then, they tried to escape, by flying somewhere else.

But how the hell could they fly into that tree, anyway? I don't know, yet I wanna. Maybe they didn't, since it's raining, and butterflies can't fly into the rain, unlike birds, only if the rain is smooth, falling into little bits onto us, like when its drizzling, or used so. Smooth or not, butterflies can't cross the field of rain, as the drops of water from the skies could kill then, or so their fragile body says to me. I am made of bones, so wherever it rains, there's no chance for my bones to be broke, althought a tumble may be enough for my bones to be gone, this only if I get old enough than I am already, or maybe older than Lennie.

Funny... these butterflies, who are now standing in hiding into some flowers near me, so quiet they had beTence before, I would say that they were dead, and that sure sounds like another reason why Fratley didn't took the hat of his, when such had gotten upon that tree. Try to think about the shock... I can, because it happened with me once. Not with butterflies, but frogs, or so they were meant to be ones. I once had gotten a bunch of tadpoles from daddy, who had put then in a jar of glass, same where he used to put the jelly mother, my mother, used to made to his. I, who forgives myself until this day, had mistakenly put that jar inside the dark cabinet of the kitchen, and on the next day, as I woke up to have of a good breakfast, prepared by daddy, I remembered that I had put the tadpoles inside same cabinet I say, and when daddy opened it, we saw with our both eyes that they were all dead.

But now I agree that they would die anyway, if stood on the marsh full of pikes where daddy found then, and even if they turned into frogs, I wonder how they would end up, after I had succesfully put one of them inside the pants of someone else, like Dan, or maybe Lennie. Whereas Dan would be pissed, yet our cordiality still remained after, Lennie would do more than press one of my ears, until they turned red, but split to my daddy as well; however, she seems to have no such force to do it so, not because daddy isn't here, but also because of my brother, still inside her, unlike me.

Well, after all this time, and he didn't answered yet. How much longer should I await for his to speak? Oddly enough, Fratley doesn't seem to avert the fact that death should come, yet the guard who is still awaiting for same answer just stands there, to calm whenever someone cries, as other kid had done, or to interact with the one whom he demanded an answer.

— ...spiders aren't insects either, neither lices... – or so Fratley said. I don't recall he ever saying such thing. The guard in front of his, erect like a spear, wasn't paying that kind of attention either, yet I could see him listening to that kid. I was listening to him as well, still I am, but I can only hear bits of his voice. It just keeps going on, and on, althought that's the intention of the guard, who wants the conversation between his and that kid, as one did with me, and Dan as well, to flow naturally, to not be forced.

After all, Fratley had been told to tell the truth, or so the truth his father spoke to his once. 'They' are, still, talking about armadillo bugs, or woodlouses, those kinds of bugs that can be found below a rock, or rotten trunks too, and when you touch them, they cover themselves like a ball, like an armadillo does as well. Interesting... the guard, like them all, had been acting naturally, like our fathers used to do so well. I wonder if these guards share of kids as well. Maybe his sons could be my friends, maybe the guard could be my friend, as they insist to be on the conversations I had, five for me in total, but if this guard, like many, sure was a friend of mine, I would call him by the name, instead of calling him by guard. Or Mister, as Fratley uses to direct to him.

— ...don't you think that bugs are fascinating, Mister?

— Yeah, they sure are... – the guard, unlike Fratley, seemed tired of the conversation, or in a few other words, tired of the listening his ears had been enduring all this time, and I wonder which time is it, and how long such passed since that moment. Five minutes, maybe the double, who cares anyway...

— I agree too! Daddy and I used to catch some butterflies... – compared to the guard, and me on a way, Fratley had a taste on conversation, even if he was talking by himself all along, yet he wanted to endure same conversation as long as he, or his stirring limbs, could. I guess you don't even need to pay attention to your own words, or your body, if you want to talk with someone – I once ate purple like grape corn for breakfast...

— ...Purple corn? And how did you got to eat such?

— Daddy brought it from the hills...

— Your father seems to be an important person to you...

— He is important to mommy as well, as much as she is important to me, and my brothers too.

— And do you agree with this distance kept between you, and your father?...

— ...

— ...So, you disagree?...

— ...

— ...Do you wish your father to come back soon?...

— ... – from that moment onwards, the guard had opened his lips, as Fratley reclused of his ones. He just looked somewhere else, other than the guard's face, purposefully avoided the questions brought by the guard. Not only he did brought the look of his to another direction, other than the grounds below his feet, the grass where his feet once stood, that same tree where his hat once stood, whom he took from my arms who holded of them, for some unknown reason, and wore on that face of his, who expressed such nothing unlike before.

No hearing, no breathing, no movement, no colors... just silence, althought the rain, and the guard, said otherwise. So Fratley hid his face, alike how a turtle shrinks like a cicada to inside its shield, with that hat, green unlike the color of the blood, and hair as well, with those familiar strands. He tried to close his eyes as well, but the utmost he could was to blink, to briefly see the dark red of the lids shut. So, Fratley just stood quiet, as much as I. However, it seems that he couldn't stand it, as much as he couldn't deliver an answer, or answers as it turned to be. He doesn't seem to be the kind who prefers to talk by himself, in thoughts, but the one who likes to share of his words to others, and hear of their words as well, even if they turn out to be a mere few words, but words in a way.

— ...Mister... – well, he gave up from that silence of before, at the moment he said a single word, and I, as much as the guard, could hear it as well – — about my daddy...

— What's it? So... shall it be a 'yes'?

— No... A yes, or no... maybe both. I... I don't know. I may be lying to you, Mister, if I had choose a 'yes'. Daddy... Even if he sure come back, so... I know he's doing his best, but... Of course I want him to come back, everyone does want... But daddy, he'll die anyway, Mister. And I don't know for sure if the dead come alive, but I kinda wanted to see if they do. Like... would I come back if I had been dead? I am alive, don't I am? So... I want daddy to be back, as soon as possible, like my brothers and mommy too, and that's fine, a wish or not.

— Okay then – and so, the guard just turned his back to us, and left. He would left this place anyway, since there's many to be asked of his question around the kingdom. I don't even know if the guard just left because he was bored enough already, or if he needed to ask other children. He didn't even asked me the question, maybe because I did it already, or maybe his patience regarding the Fratley nearby mine was gone.

Fratley had a kind of difficult to answer a 'yes', or 'no', and I don't even know if he did answered the questions brought by the guard, or if he did had listened to then. But eyes can't listen, since we share of both ears to do it so, so I guess he did listened to his words, and also spoke of his own words, even with the eyes away. At least, he tried to answer on his way, instead of giving a single 'yes', as much as I, like many, did, only to see things wash away as soon as possible. Even when abruptly ignored by that back, one of many, Fratley looked at that guard from a distance, and a sort of reminiscensce, or so I could see similar thing as well, came to his eyes, and his whole as well.

Now he moved those limbs like he usually did, not that he seemed to control then, as much as he couldn't control that appetite for a conversation. Even when not engaging in a small talk, at the moment I am looking to Fratley, describing his, creating an image of his based on his habits, it's like I'm talking to him, and the same goes for Frattie as well. If I, at least, could do the same for Lennie, or, should I had said times ago, mother...

**...**

****

This stomach reminds me of many things; things that remained, and things that shouldn't remain anymore...

After Jack had been conceived to this world, a month or two weeks later, I had to do some exercises, since I had been lying flat all along. It was difficult on the first days, but being a member of Dragoon Knights motivated me enough to do them, until I could fully recover to my state prior the labour. Days prior I could walk once again, and prior the exercising of my legs, the placenta I and Jack shared once had been taken from my womb to a bowl of soup, as I and the son born of my flesh stood on same bed, one lying above other.

From the first breath of tiny lungs, to the approach, the crucial contact of his skin to my heat, bleeding without any open wounds belonging to his own, and the string who had been cut, with its remains rotting day after day, as Jack felt the heat of my body, and I felt of same heat, feared of such to overcome me as a whole. Exposed like abatoir meat, even with both of us sharing of common pieces of cloth, green like the sourest of the limes, green like a tasteless wall of lime, althought my tongue still had the ability to taste something, like my own flesh.

I had to taste the stew of my own placenta in a soup Bart prepared to me, to improve my recovery, or so he said. He also tasted of same meat, whom he declared to be a bit limpy, sometimes gummy, and I could agree with him as well. I may admit that I felt slighty better after I had tried out to eat my own flesh. Same relief that I found when I filled in the potty a few days later, or or when I took a bath, like now. Bart felt nothing else, other than a relief as soon as I told to him that I felt better, I got better, I got strong, and nothing wrong, because I felt better, as much as I couldn't taste a glass of wine, like Bart would usually do when followed by me, on the old days before I became older, yet even younger, I had, and still I do have, been able to brought another living being to this world, as much as I had been brought as well on same way. Before I felt better, I didn't wanted that thing, who beared the name of 'Jack', given by the father, near my breasts, even if he needed of such milk, who only I had been gathering a month ago.

Painfully, my ears had to endure of his tantrums, and when I couldn't, I had to redeem myself, and allow that mouth, who had gotten a surface of white alike the strands of my hair, and a while alike the milk I had to give to his. Even at the moment of his birth, Jack seemed more quieter than when he 'asked' to me when it was time to feed him, and time for his didn't mattered; early in the morning, late in the midnight, Jack would be awake anytime he wanted, just to be feeded by me, his mother. Besides waking me up in the middle of my sleep, Jack used to bite my nipples with his jaw, as if, since that earlier, he was telling me, and anyone else, besides the cries, that my breasts had been claimed to his, and only, and he didn't even bothered if I ended up aching, or not.

I never told to your father, or anyone else, about the 'sensation' I had when I brought Jack to the food he demanded for the first time. Not that I had the time to say it so, but I couldn't, since I preferred for it to be restricted between me, and only, but since you are between me, and since I shared of many secrets with you as well, I may be able to tell you about that. A thing I thought to be forgotten for good, since it was wrong for I to had felt it, even if it was good, for a moment, before the shock, and the shame.

It happened on the first days, even after Jack had bitten me without a pair of teeth, and same thing also happened when I stood with Bart, and only. Now, since only I and Jack shared of that bed on those days, I couldn't, and still I can't even call such thing felt from the tip of my nerves by 'pleasure', even if it had given me creeps, shivers not belonging to my spine, or any kind of bone belonging to my body, yet, I had the need to feel a kind of pleasure, but not on that way, who had left a guilt on me since I am able to record of those moments.

With half of my dignity though to be gone, I also had been lead astray, not only by the son who had been feeding on myself, but by his father, your father, the one who once gave me comfort; Jack and Bart may had shared of a way to brought me comfort in a way, yet they also had found a way to harm me as well. The size of Jack's head, who weighted more than his own little body, had done a major damage to my entire body, who felt the loss of him, and the blood who passed throught the navel to his. Althought my vessels, compressed for a month to bare the size of the infant growing inside me, like now, had relaxed within the days after the labour, nowhere else, other than my organs, went on same relaxing.

Being numb by the pain instead, if it was a challenge enough to be able to fill in the potty on the early days, or to ergue a leg to practice one of the exercises required to each woman a few days after the birth, I also had to deal with a kind of love, unlike the one Bart gave me before, during the days we spent together, after I had completed the training sessions, during the nights he used to brought me home, and used to leave at the front door as well, before we ended up on same bed, same home, as I used to woke up before his, yet half of his always had been awake in the mornings, like this one.

However, when Jack came, Bart couldn't even touch me, or kiss my lips, afraid as much as I had been of bearing, more than a headache in the middle of the nights. Sleeping in the sofa instead of sharing of that same bed, Bart avoided any kind of contact of himself, or anyone else, with me; not even a single touch of his hands were delivered on the first days, even if such had happened before, when the labour pains had taken me as a whole, unlike any kind of infection, fortunately. Only the heat remained, not the heat brought by Bart, or the heat brought by a pile of blankets, covering not only me but Jack as well, whom Bart holded carefully, but the heat, belonging to nothing alike the blazes of a fire, that first took my forehead, then my ears, and my head as a whole, crossing throught my skin, and almost ending up taking me and the entirety of me as well.

A sister of mine had died of same fever as soon as her baby had been born. It took five days, to be exact, for her heat to be gone, together with her soul. The baby cried, as it usually did, and had done on the day of his mother's demise. Knock... Many gifts were brought by family members, and friends of mine to me, and Jack; same also happened to my sister, who had never seem then being used, or wore, by his daughter, whose only gifts, the ones who remained of those times, were her name, Eleanor, same name who belonged to our mother, and that orange ribbon, tied into her tail, a sort of tie that seems to be the only one who remained after her mother had passed

...Knock... Same could be said to this ribbon, and my mother as well, however, the red coat says otherwise, or used to say, yet it keeps saying the same. Even without a kiss, whom he grated to my lips a month after, same month I had decided to become, once again, a proud Dragoon Knight, Bart's tenderness with me stood the same, and the same could be related to Jack. As I had been stuck on same room, lying on same bed, wearing of same clothes, watching the light coming from same window, that was enough to make me mad, but I also had been living with same Bart, and now with our son as well.

Or, should I say, his son. My son...Knock...The one who took care mostly of Jack was his father, instead of me. But on the early days, it was different. I also took care of Jack, in a way; by being a Dragoon Knight, I protected him, and many others like him, from the dangers that surround the world outside. I may protect you as well, with these claws. Yet, even with such protection, came the distance... Knock... Knock...

Away from the heat, away from the breast, away from the sheltering red sky; I know babies can't walk on the instant they open their eyes, because of the weight of their heads, compared to the weight of their bodies...Knock Knock...Jack can't accept I am his mother, because of the weight left by this head, and those who had made it. However, not only they, but me as well. It was me who decided to be this way...Knock...It was this body who decided me to be this. These clothes I wear made me into this. And you there counts, althought you do not wear any cloth, or do follow a way...

Yet.

...Knock Knock Knock...Jack grew up on this way, but he's still a child. Knock...There's still time to do it so...Knock...There's always a time to grow up, to accept, and to...Knock Knock Knock Knock Knock... Geez, who might be the rowdy standing at the door, knocking so much?


	25. Wishlist

[♫Pearl Jam - Wishlist♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBlJJt1BEZA&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=49)

* * *

**Same July, Same Day**

**Another Hour...**

**...**

****

Okay, I guess I should stop hitting the door.

Those don't seem to be knocks, althought they do sound alike. Either way, Lennie might be mad by now, seeing how long it took to hear those steps. Maybe she was sleeping, or taking a bath, or both. If I could reach that knob up there... Why this house needed to be so big, on first place? Not even daddy, or Lennie, are that tall. Though, Lennie sure is tall, like mother. Oh... I know, I know. Stop aching, please. There's time for anything, but now I need to open the door. Maybe I could await for Lennie to come open it for me, but I had been awaiting for this for too long. Yes... the time I shall open the door by myself. Althought, I may need some help. Not Lennie's, but someone else. Maybe if Dan lifted me up, or Fratley?... Well, for some reason, Fratley just followed me to my house. I didn't even noticed his, unlike how he do notice me, with those eyes, even behind that hair of his.

Maybe he was bored of being left on his own, so he just followed me, the one who became the nearest to his, since the moment we bumped on each other. Well, we didn't meet each other this way, but it sounded alike how things went, even if they might sound different to anyone else, like Fratley himself. I had a reason to left him on his own, since I thought he wasn't alone, because he had been enjoying catching some butterflies, to later release them, but not before he watched them keenly.

Others, mainly adults, would kill these kinds of butterflies, or any other insect, so they can look to them for an eternity, but Fratley's eyes aren't just a pair of green glasses, a color unlike the glass where the corpses of many butterflies are kept against their will. A fish and their eggs also goes deep into my throat against their will, and I am feeded of watercress and bell peppers by Lennie against my will as well. Though, I am beginning to like the taste of oats, or maybe its the milk that comes with them as well.

Hngg!... Her will is above me, as much as this door seems to be above me. Hng! Hnng! Ahn!... Damn, I jump, and yet, I can't reach that knob... Pant... Pant... Whew. I wish I could jump, like a Dragoon Knight does, like mother used to jump, like Lennie used to jump. What a pain. I am bouncing, rather than delivering straight jumps. I guess I should ask Fratley to lift me up, or maybe I could lift him, because that sounds easier than the first option. No, both are equally hard enough, 'cause it's hard to convince someone to do things for you, without going unrewarded. I don't think Fratley has any kind of attraction towards rewards, other than being satisfied after any kind of conversation. The same couldn't be said of his stomach, who needed of another kind of food, other than words to be eaten.

— Hey, Fratley – I said, as I turned my back to the door. I just said the name of his, since he was the only one nearby, and also the one who I had been looking at. I had no idea of what should I be talking about with him. With Dan, it's another story, since he share of a bunch of stories, but without Dan, or father, my conversations seem meaningless. So, I take a glare to that face, some would say its cute, but in that way, I would be cute too, and then, I noticed that something was gone, the same couldn't be said for that sparkle in his eyes, or whatever was that coming up from between the black and green half of those. Maybe it was me, but I couldn't see clearly, with those flaxen strands above them – do you know whatever happened to your lucky clover? You know, the one you wore on the back of this ear?

— My lucky clover? – Fratley said, as I came up with that sort of question. He was surprised, if I may say, and who wouldn't? I guess nobody else asked to him about that clover, or ever noticed such at the back of his ear. Well, except me. I'm akin to details, or so the devil belongs to them. Anyway, that 'lucky clover' of his was gone, since it once stood at the back of one ear, same one who listened to me, belonging to the kid who always seemed to listen to me. And answer me too, since he was not a baby anymore – Oh, I know. Sorry, but I lost it.

— Oh, that's okay. I do not mind, you see. I just asked, because... well, you had been carrying on that clover at the back of your ear last day, don't you remember?

— Yeah, that's right. Maybe the clover felt somewhere else... – Fratley said, crestfallen to his pockets, as if there was a clover hid in one of them. Unfortunately, for his, there was nothing in there, not even dirt. This may be as meaningless as the talk I had , but since Lennie may be changing her clothes by now, what else should I do, other than await for that arm to spin the knob of this wooden door? And, to be fair, I'm bored of being too quiet, unlike those hands belonging to that boy. Now, after those hands had been put to be later taken out of both pockts, they now stand above his head, under that hat of his. Maybe that clover could be hid below that hair, below that hat, but each doubt has its flaws, that only I had the time to perceive of such

— It may have felt somewhere else, other than yourself – I said. Fratley didn't paid that much of attention to my words, as usual, althought he listened to me clearly. But everyone's ears do listen to another, paying attention or not. Sometimes, it's hard to make someone follow of your advices. Not that Fratley is reckless as me, but it's just that... how could I explain? I... nevermind. He's just a kid, and I am a kid as well, althought I'm a bit older than his.

— Uh... – he muttered, with a sort of dissapointment on his face. I guess Fratley couldn't find that clover, as much as I expected he couldn't. Not that I expect in contempt for this, but I hoped he could find that clover, somehow. It matched with his appearance, althought no one else, other than me, seems to bother with small details. Fratley sure is small, alike the details belonging to his.

— What's up, Frattie? – I asked, when I couldn't hear of his voice. 'Frattie'... how seldom I do call him by this way. Same goes for Dan, whom I often call by 'Gappys', and Lenneth, who I choose to call by 'Lennie' instead. Now, I became quiet as much as Fratley did, or so I thought for a moment. That dissapointment of his, unlike this one of mine, soon turned into a sign of gaiety; like, he was about to tell a funny story, or so that smile told me to be that kind of story. I just had to ask, after all.

— You know, uh... no, you don't, so let me tell you what happened – and so I went all ears to his – you see, when I came home, to find those cards daddy had hidden on his closet, and as I heard the door opening, I came downstairs. Mommy was there, and your mommy too, see? My mommy told me to call my brothers, because I was the only one there, besides my little brother, but he's so little that he can't even walk yet, and your mommy didn't knew where my brothers were, so I had time to do it so. But your friend said otherwise, with those yes, back that day. I didn't knew back that day that you two were so upset, and who wouldn't? You two where awaiting for me, or for those cards, or whatever I needed to bring to yours. I forgot to bring those cards in time, and then, I dissapointed both of you...

— I don't mind – sure, I don't mind. Yesterday is yesterday – please, continue – Lennie didn't opened this door yet, so all I can do is to keep listening to his. I'm rather tired of listening to myself already, unlike the words of this kid.

— Either way, I forgot for a moment that you two needed me, because, between you and mommy, she comes first, you see. So, I had to call my brothers, my priority was that, no matter the rest, I just had to call them. Mommy had gone to the market all alone, but then, she came thanks to your mommy, and... what is her name, by the way? Was it Lenneth? Oh, yes, that's her name, I thought about that when I went walking, you know, to see my brothers.

I guess she didn't spoke that many, but I know I've heard of same before, maybe I had saw her once, or someone who spoke of her name, I know, but I don't know how. Not so many know about me, or my name, you see. So, I thought about your mommy, and her name, before and after I called my brothers, and just as I went walking to meet you, and that friend, cousin, that boy with a gap between the front teeth, a stone made me tumble, because, well, I was distracted, and then, I felt, just as I went rolling into a ha-ha, and I kept rolling, rolling, rolling...

— ...And then, you stopped rolling? – I asked, just so that talk didn't lasted forever. I paid attention to his words, and gestures as well. Speaking about gestures, mostly done by both hands, varying from zig-zags to full circles, I could see, and feel, thatFratley was excited to be able to talk about it, and still he wanted to keep talking. At this point, many would have already gave up of this boy, and the story within his. Well, what else should I do, other than keep listening to his?

— Of course I did. I had hit a wall, or the wall hit me... either way, I had to stop rolling. Fortunately, you see, I feel fine, since that day. The cards and I landed atop the green, a bit yellow, grass, and other plants. Those seeds with spikes went glued to my skin, as much as they went within my clothes as well, and I took then all, shaking my head, turning my fingers into pinchs because those spikes were itchy, except for a clover that went stucked at the back of my ear. I didn't even noticed that thing, until you noticed it.

However, what you, your friend, even myself didn't noticed, besides the green of the clover, was the purple, not the one belonging to those Quad Mist cards, but the purple of my knees and elbows. Mommy did noticed them, even before I had showed them to her. She surely knew I had been wounded, you see, althought I felt fine, as usual. I had to drink a spoon of castor oil, whom mommy usually served to my brothers as a sort of punishment, but because I had been kind with her all along, she also had made me prove a bit of maple syrup as well.

— Interesting – to prove of some castor oil, to later taste the flavour of something alike maple... now, I know Fratley sure is lucky – and what happened to your lucky clover? Wasn't it stuck at the back of your ear all along?

— Well, it was, until today. I took a bath, I changed my clothes, mommy washed my clothes, as she did with the ones belonging to my brothers, we all had dinner, and nobody asked about that clover, not even mommy. And, like, I woke up today with a strange taste in my mouth. Strange, because I had a dream where I stepped on moss carpet, then I went sit on a dinner table, and I had been drinking only water, glasses of water, it was raining outside, then I drank a whole cactus daddy brought from the desert, I felt its spikes into my pants, then mommy gave in my hands a dish full of cut like squares watermelons into my mouth, I spited those black seeds, and then I woke up, with my nose telling me that my bed became wet, once again.

It happens. Like, one of my tooth had felt on the same day, see? So, I had to sleep, not on the same bed, but on another, belonging to one of my brothers. But before, I changed my pants, because, you know, they were soaked, and they stinked, just like my bed. I took a bath on my own this time, and my hands instead of mommy washed me instead. Each one of them refuse to divide a single space, even when I said that I could sleep at the tip of their feet. It was getting cold, so I had to sleep.

— And the clover was there, at the back of your ear?

— Yes, the clover was there, on my ear, unlike now. My tooth was under the pillow, whose feathers didn't had any smell, so I took them both. I hoped that I could find the Nezuminoko, maybe even be able to speak with him; however, my eyes said otherwise. How could I talk to that mouse if I had been affected by his sleeping powder? It was then that I was about to fell asleep, the wall and the floor seemed so comfortable at the night, until I saw the light, orange light, of that candle, coming from mommy's room.

I holded of my pillow, as I crossed the corridor between my room, where my brothers stood on their beds, to came above the only remaining bed belonged was the one who belonged to mommy, where daddy used to sleep with her. My little brother was sleeping on that crib, where I and my brothers used to sleep too, but now that crib belonged to his, and only. Besides the crib, mommy's arms where also there, to hold him, as much as she uses them to hold us as well. But, with my little brother, she holded tightly with him, and not so much, unlike the way she touches, or even washes me, and my brothers as well. So I had to sleep with mommy that night.

— And that was when you had lost your lucky clover?

— Maybe. Seeing how much I had tried to convince my brothers to hire a space on their beds, which I failed to do it so with them all, mommy allowed me to sleep on her bed, as I layed on the same space daddy used to sleep with mommy. I could even smell his scent, on that pillow and those blankets, as much as mommy could too. I couldn't sleep yet, with that candle lit, so I had blown it with a single blew, aside a mouth covered by a bit of spit.

So, as the room went all dark, like almost the entire house did, as I put my head on my pillow, mommy layed above daddy's pillow, to feel more of his scent, and my tooth rested under my own pillow, covered by same blanket daddy used to share with mommy, and now I shared of that blanket. It was that big, even bigger than me, the blanket, the bed, and mommy too. With that big bed, I hoped that I had a big dream as well, until I felt something that made me woke up sooner than I expected. I felt a bit of something watery falling in my skin, and this time it didn't came under my pants, but atop my face, like it wasn't spit, or sweat, but a tear. Not my tear, and that wasn't my eye, but mommy's.

She was crying, like a willow does. Seeing that hair and face crestfallen that way, she looked like a willow to me. I couldn't even hear her moaning, like when people do when they cry. Mommy then holded onto me, the nearest person who had been there, closer than my little brother sleeping in the crib. He uses to wake up in the middle of night before mommy does. Not that she wants to wake up, but she needed to do it so, because my little brother would be crying, and crying, and I don't think its polite to tell a baby to be quiet, even when hungry. I was hungry too, even after the dinner I had, but I couldn't complain to mommy, seeing how tired she was, even before she came up to sleep on that bed. So, mommy holded me, instead of daddy's pillow, on same way as daddy used to hug her.

I guess that was more than a mere hug. A cuddle, if I could say. Daddy always told me to treat a lady right, no matter the age. I never asked to him if it was my age, or the lady's age, that counted. But then, I had no way to ask him that night, or the nights that came before that day. Maybe mommy had been crying because she had doubts, and daddy wasn't there to answer then. I couldn't answer mommy's questions, like daddy would do, because I couldn't even hear then, like daddy would listen, and only he listened what mommy said to him.

But, I had to find a way to calm mommy, so I told her, on the first try, that I enjoyed the dinner of that day, althought I had peed on my bed that night. Second try, and I told to mommy that I took a bath on my own, for the first time. See? Those were good things. And, for the third try, I told, no, I sang a lullaby to mommy. On each night, she uses to tell me and my brothersa lullaby, for so we could sleep, more than we could under the blanket, and above the pillow. I never had told mommy a lullaby so she could sleep before that night.

And guess what? It worked. Mommy even grated me, and that effort I had to sing, because, well, I only sang to myself all along, but never to anyone else, besides me, but then, mommy heard of my voice. Though my voice ain't that sweet, like mommy, she then released those arms away from me, unlike that look, same look that could be seen even with those eyes closed. Before mommy closed her eyes, she told me that, despite my lullaby, a song about spiders being washed down the wall, I couldn't think of anything else, she also appreciated that I stood on her side as well. Not that I wanted to, but my bed went soaked by an invisible yellow of mine, or maybe it was clearly as water, but it was dark, so I couldn't see. It was dark on mommy's room as well, althought I could feel her kiss, on my cheek, the nearest place besides the lips, whom only she kissed thoses belonging to daddy. So, after that good night kiss, we had a good sleep. I guess she did, seeing how I didn't felt the blanket moving unusually. Fine then.

I had another dream, and it was a dream unlike another I had. I had been sitting on a table, only me and mommy, we both sitting on chairs belonging to same side. I was eating lettuce, prepared by mommy, who looked at me, and the more I coulse see the look of her face upon me, more I ate of same lettuce. When I finished, mommy clapped, and then, I picked up a pretty red strawberry, mommy's favorite kind, with same fork, then I raised that fork to mommy, to put that strawberry inside her mouth. And it was then that I felt a strange taste in my mouth, a sort of leaf taste. Oh! Now I know whatever happened to my lucky clover. I ate it, Jack.

— ...What!? You ate it? – I said, rather surprised, after all I had been kept to endure. No distraction, only to hear this. I guess nothing else can surprise me after this. Or maybe I am utterly wrong, as usual with Fratley.

— Had you ever eaten a spinach leaf? It's the same thing – Fratley said it, as if it was the most lifelike thing that may happen.

— No. I despise spinach, as much as I despise watercress as well...

— Really? I like then both! – Fratley said, surprised as much as I had been, when he said that he ate that clover. And now I had find someone who likes what I don't like – It's only my tongue that dislikes their flavour. See? – he opened that mouth, and with that index, he pointed to his teeth, from the left to the right – you put the spinach, the watercress, whatever it's the vegetable you don't like between your teeth. Try to chew then, wthout letting your tongue touch them, and when you had chewed enough, you just swallow everything deep into your throat. If there's a flavour remaining in your mouth, you can drink water, or milk, or eat a watermellon as well.

— Thanks for the advice – I can see it was a pretty good advice of his. Think of how many carrots and peppers I could had been eating, without tasting then, only to feel them deep into my throat... that's why Fratley is a good boy.

— There are lucky clovers anywhere I go, so don't worry if I had eaten one by a single mistake, okay? – okay. I said that I didn't minded about it before, but thanks for reminding me of this detail. Fratley sure reminds a lot of things, for someone with a small skull – you know, speaking about food, and those things you put in your mouth, daddy once had to prove of his own pee. He said it tasted like hot beer, and guess what? He was right – what? Uh... I can't believe it. Is there something that hadn't been there, on that mouth, other than food? And why I am interested to ask more? And where's Lennie to open this door already? Whatever.

— ...And did you drank beer just to know if it tasted like pee?

— Nah, I only had to taste it. The flavour, if you could call it by such, later made me spit in a wall. I'd rather drink my own pee than drink beer once again.

— Well, 'good' for you... – I am speechless, althought I want to speak more, and listen more as well. That's one of many faults belonging to my design. Fratley's as well.

— ...Daddy said to me once that if you pee on your feet, they'll be clean of any kind of fungus...

— Ughhh... Couldn't he just treat both feet with some kind of medicinal herbs? – enough of that. Where's Lennie to open this door? Not even the windows are open, unlike Fratley. Besides hearing Fratley, I heard some steps, same steps I heard before Fratley came up with his explanation. I guess I was so interested, or distracted as well, by his words that I didn't even noticed, or bothered to hear those steps.

And, as I expected, the knob belonging to that door twisted, as same door opened, allowing us, because Fratley was still there as well, to see the owner of same hand, and the house where she had been all along. Lennie, or if I could say on her face... thinking about it, she sure is beautiful, on the way daddy speaks of her. Forget Dan. Even with that belly, huge by now, prominently becoming the detail that hids the smal ones, like those purple eyes, or that silver hair, wrapped like a ponytail with an orange ribbon, akin to the one tied into that tail, and my tail as well.

Geez... Why do I feel this way? Can't I just tell how do I feel? How 'I' feel... I had been calling her by 'Lennie', yet what does ever that mean? A sort of mockery? Why only now I came to realise of such? Argh... I can't even grim these teeth without she notices them with those eyes. I need those eyes to notice me, somehow. Yet, I want her to notice of my words too. Not those words, but... I am speechless of words I never had the time to tell. Some I don't even know yet. 'Lennie', As much as I, stands quiet, briefly to say so. I can see whenever a question may come in, to be uttered by those lips. Mouth, I mean. Those lips are for daddy, and only. A mouth belongs to anyone else; however, am I anyone else to her? Of course not.

— So it was you who had been knocking the door before, Jack? – she asked. I agreed with a nod, and a look on her face. Maybe I could had said a 'yes' instead, but I couldn't. I don't know why, or maybe I do know. I already know why. At least, I made a signal for Lennie, proving that I was alive – Well, I guess I can trust your scent, after all – she said, looking into another direction, to the kitchen, instead of a straight look into my face, like before. Her nose sniffed, or maybe she just breathed, as usual.

— Why you took so long to open the door? – I asked, in a tone unlike mine. Sure, I would ask to Lennie this same question, O had been prepared to ask it so even before I came here. That's why I knocked the door, at first place. But, speaking about how I said that question... I asked on a desperate way, on a way I did needed to know why that door hadn't been opened yet, unlike how I do used to not bother, to not give a damn about anything, but ask just because I felt the need to do it so, like now, but I never sounded that... soft by now? There may be another word that means the same, but better.

— I had been busy – Lennie just said, quickly as she noticed Fratley, glanced to his, and turned his head to the kitchen. Also, she scratched that nose, carefully due to the size of those nails, and with same hand, and nails, she scratched the back of her neck, until that head had been turned to the kitchen, same instant that same hand ended up laying above that stomach, all done after another. So busy that she didn't even looked at me... Well, she did. For an instant.

— Sniff, sniff... what a wonderful smell – said Fratley, who had been sniffing with that nose of his. I didn't even noticed, until I turned my head to his, like how Lennie did, and still is doing, to the kitchen's direction, which is just the opposite direction of Fratley's, whose direction is near the kailyard of my house.

— Boy, that's only hot water and salt – she said. That face had been kept on same way, looking at the kitchen's direction, except for a brief turn taken by those eyes, after those ears heard of Fratley's voice, and words of praise, who suggested that her cooking skills were amazing enough; that the food about to be prepared, as it seemed to be, tasted good even before they went inside that bowl. Lennie left a smile as well. A smile unlike her turn, who only lasted briefly. Though, she remained a bit worried, like before, even with that smile. How easy it is to make someone smile, don't you think, Jack? No, I don't.

— I wonder what shall be prepared for lunch... – I said, and also wondered. Giving that there was nothing, anything being cooked inside that bowl, I guess Lennie was worried about what she needed to cook, at first place.

— The usual, Jack – ...vegetables once again. I know, and Lennie knows. I may not like them, but as Fratley said, I'll try to chew them with my teeth, without letting my tongue touch a single leaf. Lennie didn't even looked at me, not even a bit. At least, she heard me, but ears can hear anyone, looking through or not. Once again, I saw that look on her face.

It was like Lennie did knew what to do next, yet she didn't wanted, or had been worried about it. I know Lennie is truly worried not because of her expressions, but the way she acts. Her arms may not be crossed upon that chest, but at least, there's an arm there, and how often she puts that same arm there. My brother, who is below that arm, that chest, is a reason for Lennie to be worried about. Not that she is worried because of my brother and only. She is also worried about me as well. I know she is, always had been. This morning, the morning of yesterday, the day before yesterday... so many days. I've had this feeling before, but I just rejected it. I threw it away, yet I want them back. But there's time to do many things, and less time to do all things.

Now it seems to be lunch time, yet there's no such lunch at the table, but hot water, and a bit of salt, where food used to be prepared. Still it is prepared on same way, to be later served on same dishes. Well, only two had been currently served above the table. But today, it seems there'll be three dishes, or so that kid's stomach hurled, even if I couldn't hear of such, but Lennie sure did heard it. Since Lennie knows about Fratley's mother, the same goes for Dan's mother, she allowed him to share of a dish, and a sit as well, for later. So we, I included Fratley, came inside that house, crossing between Lennie's legs, who, like the door, had opened it to allow us to get inside.

I didn't had any reason to run, unlike Fratley, who already reserved a sit for his. Funny though, because I am an only child, and yet, there are like five, six chairs, each one with four legs, awaiting for someone to sit at them, and by these someones, now it remained only two of us, each one with six legs in total, counting my little brother. Before, there was once three of us, each one with six legs in total; I hope daddy didn't lose a leg, or an arm, for good. By the way, I already sat into all of these chairs, Fratley. It was raining outside, as usually had been for an eternity, but who else to care, other than those who had been there? Though, this house is under the rain as well. Only the ceiling gets soaked, as we stand in there, drying up, or trying to do it so. The wind also dries the cloths hanging into that line outside, althought in the end, they all get soaked anyway, like those vegetables, and fruits hanging in that kailyard, where Lennie soon will be, to collect pieces of our lunch.

Now I do know why she had been so worried. Lennie thought that I wouldn't come back, or maybe she did though that I would, but then, what would I do next? Ask her about any kind of food? Do I ever asked to her that I wanted a bit of watercress to be served anyway? I guess I didn't. Not even now. An empty basket is lying above this table, as much as forks, knives, spoons, dishes and our hands. That basket used to be filled in by any kind of vegetables, or leaves belonging to them. Leaves of cabbages, roots of carrots, stems of potatoes, fruits of tomatoes, tiny alike cherries, sseds of beans... a variety of food served on a single dish, who had been all empty by now, alike that basket. Lennie also noticed it, and as she came near us, near the table, I raised that basket, so I could deliver it to her hands.

— Thank you – she said. I think I deserved way more than a mere 'thank you', seeing how Lennie stood, on that same position. She didn't even turned her back so she could hold of that same basket on her arm. I recall she once said that her back hurted, or maybe she didn't ever said it after all.

I saw her back hurt, back that day, and today as well. As if that chest, and that back weren't enough, Lennie's ankles were a bit swollen, but a bit had been enough for I to notice of them, on both feet. So, Lennie couldn't turn her back, because of how painful it was to do it so, and those bubble feets must be painful as well, althought she keeps standing anyway. I follow Lennie, to where she goes, the kailyard outside this house, because she doesn't seems to be okay. Never she had been a kind of 'okay', but 'fine' instead. Or so she insists, and still does, even without words, that she is fine. Fratley stood on that same chair, knowing that Lennie wasn't alright as well. He looked at me, as if he had been saying 'your turn' with those eyes. Fratley had no idea of what to do next, other than put a piece of food into that mouth, who stood quiet, unlike that stomach only Lennie could hear, like any other of her kind. She's a kind of mother. My mother.

If I could, at least, find a way to say that, on her face. Of all the things I said to her, and none of them had ever sounded alike this word. Yes, this word. So near of me, yet faraway, yet so close. I wished that I could be near Lennie, like that basket, but also that I could be more than what that basket does for Lennie. To be holded by those arms, and also to hold of same arm with my own. From the front door, to a few steps, I came where she is, and so we stand on same soil, same position. Speaking of position, Lennie only stands on that position, alike a statue does, but she isn't dead yet to turn into one. Althought she is already gray, like they all seem to be, like a dead does seem to be.

Besides the rain, I felt a tiny strand of hair falling upon me. A white strand, belonging to that same white hair. That thing felt like a leaf, once again, into me. Atop my nose, to later fall into the ground... Alike how a tree does when autumn comes, because Lennie isn't bald like a tree on a winter, like many trees by now, althought the white in the ground slowly starts to came in when winter comes. The rain seems colder than usual, yet I do feel a kind of warmth, and aching of same level as well. I can't even speak to Lennie... It's like there's a mirror between us, and I am the bird who cannot see them. I know it, because a bird once had gotten his head beaten into my bedroom's window. If I had left that window open, maybe that bird wouldn't had died that day.

However, there is no such mirror on the ground beneath my feet, Lennie's feet. As I said, she can't even turn that back, without feeling that pain, unlike how I do keep crouched, digging in the dirt with these tiny claws, of tiny hands, to find some potatos, carrots, any kind of onion, to be put into that basket. I can also take some okras and lettuces, cabagges, tomatoes, those kinds that I do not even have the need to dig to find and take them to that basket. But they are unreachable for Lennie as well. She does keep watching me, and these actions of mine, on same position as before. No kind of 'thank you' had been uttered this time, because Lennie, as much as I, went speachless as well.

I know I have the touch, and I had been wanting some contact all this time. I know I'll be served of a good lunch, because the same had been made by a good mother like you. If, at least, I could say that to you, instead of looking at you, and thinking that I once had said that to you once upon a lifetime.

**...**


	26. Yulquen

[♫Autechre - Yulquen♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAs2duUJpAk&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=51)

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**May 1778**

**...**

****

Kill... or to be killed?

I ask, to this self in the mirror. My back is killing me, as much as they tried to do with me, as a whole. Not only me, but the country from where I came from, and their people, who stand in there just like me as well. Mirrors of me, of the country, and their prosperity, now gathered in this other land, these wetlands of Lachenta, found miles away of Aerbs and its hills, higher than these plains, dry than this land of marshes, and their inhabitants. Mainly frogs and creatures that eat of such, known as Qu, who can be found living in their natural state into one of these marshes. The sound of frogs coming from outside the tent vanish into bits of massive tongues stuck in the mud, the ponds of grenish water found anywhere on these land says of feet stuck.

Their symphony sounded alike the organ of the early morning brought by Alexander. On that day, and those days before that day of departure. Days of flowers for them all; for my wife, on the day of our marriage, for my sons, on each day one of them felt the water of baptism flowing throught their skin, like the spirit of Alexander guiding us since that moment, and for father, and his funeral. He was a farmer of Dali, a town of granaries filled in by corn, who sustains the main populance, as food, and mainly funds.

Airships fly and land on such place to move people, and their corn, to Alexandria, who needs both, besides already sharing of the azure of the skies, the white of the sun, those I and father used to watch, instead of the grimmy belonging underneath the Mist, for whom I once stood above, like these other men, like their families still stand. Unlike my both legs, once sustained by the itchy ones.

Dirty boots of mine lie in the corner, as the feet that used to wear those are currently being treated of a collection of ringworms I had gotten with the years. I may not be an athlete, but I had gotten of such burning in both feets. Leather boots aren't effective, as water and heat gathered together, favouring the proliferation and amount of fungus into my skin, either peeling or burning, like a frostbite gotten by the hold of a thick hoarfrost. They say a kind of fishes are used for a treatment, supposed to heal people from such disease inflicting my feet, currently. These fishes, said to had been found into hot springs near the settlement of Esto Gaza, seem to appreciate the taste of dying skin, thought Qus seem to appreciate the flavour of a dead skin as well.

I'd rather eat fish than let then eat me. Qus only seem to known about how to cook and eat of such cooking. Few words are enough for a whole mouth, who's only able to eat, even words as well. Broken words, as this world, unlike those bones, who once were broken, by rocks and debris falling at my back. I guess I am lucky, or guilty of such misfortune, brought by others, brought back by same others, who cannot be brought back to their families, only in conversations, and thoughts. Father used to tell me about this kind of feature belonging to each one of us, this mechanist of praise for the dead ones.

When someone dies, they're recognized by a whole as a man with values not belonging to his, in many times. Soldiers who die on a war, or a civil outbreak are praised as good beings, brave people with blood running throught their family, while prisoners often are associated with murdering, even thought most of them had been in a cage because of thievering. So, why can't I be a murderer, or a thief instead? Father may had been a thief, but because they stole from him first. Father may had been murdered, yet he had been once the butcher of young calves, numb to become the veal my dear wife appreciates that much, as she used to enjoy finding painted eggs stolen by their Chocobos on Easter back before I knew her. I am older than her, who's just a child, even now.

'It's soft', she once said when eating of veal on dinner, an opinion that would be uttered by me as well, this if I had never been a farmer's son, who knows of the way such flesh goes from the farm to ther dish of porcelain. I never told her, and I insist to not tell her, and I have no time to tell her. I never had time to anything else, besides her protection, and the protection of many, that go and came alongside us. I only lost a finger, yet such valuable ring as well, but I had not lost her, and the sons that came from her. Despite my uniform, I'm not a estrangled being for the duty I had been born with. As father used to plow the soil of his plantations, virgin soil awaited to be taken in, and seeds of mine to be buried within.

Stormy seasons often would came, and I would fall like an orphan to her arms. On top or underneath, I would even try to pinch her skin to see if she was real, more than I could feel her, and the role of servant of mine in the game of unequality. I may be smart, but that doesn't mean the others who are less smarter than my capacity are unworthy, or pathetics. Not are we perfect, but we share of this imperfect we had been born with, and by learning of such imperfections, each day we improve, we try our best to feel better with ourselves. As imperfect ones, we seek into the other the 'perfection', a mere act of solidity.

However, in just a single generation, some will be forgotten, vanished into the void you allowed to be taken in. But this hard work of mine may save my soul, may be more than a reward in gil, because, like father, I'm sure that I did more than enough I could, yet I can do more, or so this body says otherwise, althought my body only works contrary to my thoughts due to its nature, unrelated to my thoughts.

But my thoughts, however, aren't mine either, alike this body, and the soul that maybe resides within, on same way these thoughts, of mine and others, had been spread into this mind, put in there by voices, mostly commands. I am the one that seems to command others, yet someone else controls me as well. I wasn't willing to put these herbs on my feet, for the treatment of this disease already inflicting the damage on my skin, and maybe more, as it seems to go deeper and further within me. I struggle to such thing to not happen, never happen, however, it already happened. I am not the kind of a careless being, but one against the crowd has its results, and most of the times, the one who wins is the crowd; same could be said for the advices taken from my subordinates, who insisted to put these herbs beneath my toes.

A few burmecian herbs for a burmecian treatment, a treat to my feet, and a threat for my image; as if their image could even stand out. I could even draw a comparasion between a mere dragon hunting painting, to a colorful stained glass belonging to a baroque church, built in for Alexander to reside, as much as there is enough hearts to be his home. While they dance barefoot for the harvest, in the rain or in the sand, I stand in there, safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye, or so father had one, and so do I share of one, as much as Save the Queen, who do not share of eyes, but a blade whose light can be seen by one, and felt as well.

There is a passage near this marsh, that should be able to guide us into their territory, or so the advice of the 'messenger' came up to be truthful once again. And, to think he's one belonging to same species...

**...**

**June 05, 1778**

**Two Months Later**

**...**

****

_...A phenomenon... caused by an intense state..._

_The shape... abrupt changes of character..._

_...Only humanoid beings... no reasoning... emotions..._

_For now... To enter same state... overcome by its own emotions._

_...Berserkir units... past... evoke the spirit of animals._

_Spirit... to be discharged... massive energy... in Trance..._

_Triggered... death... anger... sorrow... despair..._

_...Bravery?..._

_Traince... It naturally ends... all energy is discharged..._

_Atmosphere... Mist..._

**_..._ **

— My Highness... – I heard that voice. I came up across these documents, and I have read the words in bold, or those that had caught my attention. More than the words on the paper, I also caught the attention of Sigurd, same attention belonging to him, after he found out who was the one who went looking out for his personal stuff. Me, of course, who, even at this moment, had been holding of same document, page five, to say so.

And what should I say to Sigurd, on that state? My state, as well, counted. Caught by surprise, who wouldn't? I had been caught by that hand so many times, same hand who taught me how to lift a sword, or the correct fork for any kind of food. Swords, and spears as well, do not share of same shape, yet they can be put in any hand, and the edge of their blades can be used to do anything, to make life easier.

When I was younger, I once saw a Royal Guard, no, two of them, in the garden, as they lifted their pikes to chop down a tree with a swollen trunk. It was a dead tree, unlike many winter trees, who only lose of their leaves, to later make them grown when other seasons arrive, but that tree would never grown again. That trunk, afterwards, had been turned into fuel for the fireplace, because that's the destination of all poor prime materials.

Not even a chair could had been made of that wood, but then, at least, it could burn, like all trees do, and are capable of doing. People also burn, in a way; by fever, or by mere reaction, a single reaction that, may, end up caughting the attention of anyone near its fire. A pile of dry wood burns well, and quicker than any kind of wood; now, a pile of dry people... they all burn, and no one knows who started the fire, after all.

— Oh, Sigurd... – I said, as if I had been surprised by his presence. I'm not that kind who's skilled in lies, seeing how much I do not even trust myself. To truly lie, you must believe that your lies are the truth. Yet, all I had been learning, by Sigurd and others, is that it's wrong to lie.

Why is it wrong to lie, and rightfully acceptable to tell the truth? Is it a lie to tell others that the truth is better than lies? What should I choose as a better way to avoid any kind of question belonging to that frown? Anyway, there is no truth, as much as there is no lie. There are circunstamces, perspectives, and presumptions of what happened, and what shall, or not, happen. Even if I admit, with words or a single quote, the truth, my truth, my body will say otherwise. And how does it keeps saying the contrary of my words.

Sweating, a bit crestfallen, no words to be uttered, even if they were, they might end up stuttered by this tongue, about to be bitten, in a chance of two added up to a full percent, and this confusion I created, as I intentionally seeks of more of same, unlike Sigurd, who stands there, seeking of a clear answer, with that frown, arms wide open around that waist, unlike those who gravity keeps pulling to any kind of direction, alike the words I planned to utter, already being uttered, other words, by that royal navy blue cloths hanging on that body, alike this one, who also share of same blue cloth, yet ripples are delivered, instead of the static, and calm sea, who seems to be calm, until a tidal wave comes abruptly, from the middle of the unnexpected time, as unnexpected I though about the appearance of his, same who used to belong to father, when he found out, that day, that I broke the urn containing the ashes of the first 10 Kings who went by the name of Kain. They may have shared of same name, but they were not of same kind, except in blood.

— Who granted you acess to my stuff, my Highness? – Sigurd asked. I had nothing to say to his, yet I needed to tell him something. When Sigurd asks on that way, he also demainds of an answer, and silence, if there's such, isn't acceptable, as much as a single 'yes' or 'no' can't be validated as well. Just because is an answer, but an answer belonging to the ignorant ones, and I am no such, in blood, or in words.

— I'm sorry, Sigurd – I said. Apologies are accepted by Sigurd, ever since I've learned to talk, and to lie as well. When I look to Sigurd, since the times I had learned to bare the light with the eyes, I can see if my words had made the effect I desire.

— And what else? – no change could be seem on that face, because of how vague a mere sorry is to Sigurd. It used to work when I was learning the alphabet, but given how much I grown up, a sorry is an only answer, on same way as 'yes', 'no' or 'just because'. Besides a sorry, I also needed came up with an explanation, enough to make that frown dissapear, because that's the maximum I can get to soften a bit of Sigurd, as I am no more a child of pillow.

— Sigurd, I'm sorry if I went snooping into your stuff below your nose without your approval... – I said, really sorry about what I did before. 'To snoop' sounded too informal, but since only I and Sigurd were on this tent, it didn't mattered, with the eyes of the public away like the troops, scattered around this desert.

A sort of guerilla tactics, adopted by us, and not oficially adopted by the enemy, the Alexandrians, who adopt a sort of phalanx defensive stance, or 'granfalloon stance', when they all are gathered on a same site, sharing of a same identity and purpouse, althought meaningless, or so it makes us believe to be is meaningless when you share of a defense, the troops, and supplies, the food for the troops. Given the the assistance of Libers, there is a sort of advantage on our side, as much as there is disadvantage as well.

The sun of Vube, althought the same sun who shines the entirety of this continent, or the factor that scattered away the Mist from this desert, maybe it's meant to be unnexplained, alike how the rain of Burmecia keeps pouring for what seems to be an eternity; so, the sun may have settled down by now, but the nights here are worse as well. With the heat, comes the sweat, and dehidratation, and maybe death, but when comes the night, the cold, the intense shivers make you wish of the heat of day, and when daylight comes in, you think that you might had chosen the wrong answer, yet good, althought you feel bad.

This comparasion between the heat of the day and the cold of the night suits well how do I feel about Sigurd, and the way he acts by each word I speak. These intentions of mine are unlike the results, most of the times. You can't wish for a tree to turn into paper immediately, as much as you can't make Sigurd laugh for any joke, no matter how funny it is. Just because it had been funny to you, it doesn't meant that'll be funny to someone else. I know it, because I once told a joke to Sigurd, that one about why the chocobo crossed the road, when I was a kid, to some like that one about the pregnant woman, and how grass doesn't grow on beaten soil. I'm sure that Sigurd understood them, I know he did, but I couldn't even see a single smirk.

— Tsk, tsk. It seems you had been prying into my personal research, don't you? – he asked, with that same demeanor, saw many times ago, and once again. Briefly before as well. All I could say was the truth, and an apology, again. Only a few times I had to apologize twice to Sigurd, and only because I had done something that much than a single 'wrong', and too far enough to be even 'right'. Breaking glass in the room again, drawing something awful in the carpet, swear to the Priest, or the Duke, or anyone else in words, and pry into personal files belonging to Sigurd, as I did, and I am sorry if I had done it.

— Yes. I'm sorry, Sigurd – I said, as if it wasn't enough to keep saying it. What I once thought to be an easy escape route to all sorts of problems, this turned out to be one of my many problems.

— You don't have the need to be sorry only to yourself, my Highness. I am another one who shall need to be sorry as well, seing how I had given such vulnerability to these documents, even for someone such as you, and by result, someone below you, or us, as well.

I... am speechless. I never heard Sigurd say such thing. Well, only once, when I asked to him about mother. 'I had a mother, didn't I?'; that's what I asked to his, after hearing from Edgar about his mother, but what about mine? I recall I had said it to Sigurd, about how Edgar treated me, still does the same, but seeing how I fell asleep later that night, I don't know for sure if I had said to Sigurd about it. He didn't even bothered, did he? Anyway, I gave these documents to his, as I left to my room. Not a room alike home, but a sort of room, better than any common tent from inside. I know it, since I saw one before, many who seemed to be one when I and Sigurd decided to check the troops. That's what he would do, when followed of father, most of the times.

So, I asked about Racquel, her name, to Sigurd. That garden, same mother used to be, so Sigurd told me once, two, three times, same subject of his conversations, was her favorite place belonging to that palace. I wasn't even born, or had an existence yet, but mother had a tie to trees, and their trunks, where she used to rest, to lay under a tree's leaves, with the head and back near the trunk. No matter how stiff the wood, she always felt a kind of comfort near one. Sigurd also told me that Edgar used to play hide-and-seek on same garden, with same mother, as he kept an eye on both. I also played hide-and-seek when young, but not on same was as Edgar, the main brother, used to. When I played same game, I was the one who were left behind, the last one to be found, not only because I used to hid well, but Edgar was the one who seeked me.

There was a time I played hide-and-seek with my brothers, and Edgar had found my other brothers, but he couldn't find me. It took so long for him to find me, that I got hungry. It was then that a guard heard me, because of the noises belonging to my stomach. As usual, I had been feeded by a banquet like another, and the same for my brothers as well. But when Sigurd seeked me, it was different. Behind the curtains, behind the plant pot, under the bed, under the table, behind the throne... a few times, I used to hid behind the guard's leg, because they just stood there, like statues, unfunny ones, who only seemed to get alive when ordered by father, or Sigurd, who always had found me, no matter where I was, or when I told the guard to not reveal where I was. They always disobeyed me, but obeyed Sigurd, and father as well.

But there'll be a time when they'll have to obey me, instead of taughting me the rules, of anything. Edgar used to be same kid as I do had been once, but now he's the King, like father was. He can do anything, always seemed to do anyway, even young, as we were once. Still we are young, and act like such. Sigurd may had been young as well, certainly he had, yet, at least, he's one of few who grew up. He knowns how to grow up, besides the height. And, like many grown ups, Sigurd also shares of many secrets, or personal stuffs, ether problems, or solutions, as it seemed to be wrote on those documents. The King can meddle in any situation, unlike the Prince, yet I do what I haven't been told to do. Curiosity is one of my flaws, and apologies succeding of same curiosity as well. Not that I had been grounded by Sigurd, never I had been, not because of my behaviour, but my status. I am the one who shall ground others, or so I had been taught this way.

Besides the punishment, a King also needs to balance same punishment with rewards, gifts, something that makes someone valuable of their efforts, though many die without being acknowledged. Mother passed, even before I could look at her, or feel her, yet there's a statue of her hanging there, somehwere to be noticed. There'll be a statue belonging to me as well, as much as I do something other than keep saying apologies for any kind of bad situation. At least, I do say an apology, unlike my brother, who still hadn't said anything to me, besides ordering me what to do, against my will. Though, I took care of his sons not because he demanded, but because they demanded of something I had, but my brother had lost it long ago. Same could be said about how Sigurd took care of me all this time, not only because father ordered to him at first, but because he had a commitment, alike how his sister, my mother, had with Edgar, and my brothers.

**...**

**On Another Place...**

**...**

****

— ...We must go back, before the sand loses the heat at the peak of night – I said, after I took care of that creep, with these own hands... same hands that I'm using to ergue Bart, who recovered slightly, yet not enough, seeing how that wound left by that knife, still stuck on his skin, I better be careful to not remove it, or else... I know what happens.

But I don't want it to happen, again. Many things that already happened before, I do not want them to be shown anymore, in front of me. That's why I had to take care of these two men, in two kinds of ways. I was very kind to both, yet I do regret of my manners with the one who stood, laying in the sand, awaiting, because of me, and my actions, for the desert, home of Antilions and nasty scorpions, to kill him instead, before his own body, suffering from dehidratation, does. These are both painful ways to kill someone, I know. More painful than the known, it's the unknown. Many fear the unknown, as much as many fear those alike us. Me, Bart, Clyde... Mainly men of our kind.

— So, Prescott... – I heard Bart, saying his name. He's currently being holded by me, my back is holding me, in a way, as his right hand can be felt atop my right shoulder, his head lying above my left shoulder, and that left hand had been left numb, unlike the pain of his. Many shed a tear when they felt pain, but Bart seemed to feel nothing, yet I knew how he was feeling. Not only feelings, or doubts about the knife, as it seems – are you a Cleyran? – he asked to me, as we walked closer to reach our tent. Before, I had been watching the sandstorm that secluded my home from this world on a distance. Like a spinning plate, it kept twisting, for what seemed to be an eternity. And I wished, from the moment I saw such familiar place, that the sandstorm were kept on the way it was, and luckily, still is.

— Of course I do – I only said, truthful to myself. Yes, I am a Cleyran, or used to be. Still I am, yet the rain and these clothes say otherwise. As I keep moving my feet throught this sand, pigs don't sweat, but horses do, feeling the heat of the dusk, and the sweat flowing into my body, refreshing my skin with the breeze, these and other things makes me feel in a kind of home. A home I used to stay, unlike the Libers and the Cleyrans.

— You don't seem to be that much of a Cleyran to me – he said. Bart may had heard from Clyde about my past life. No, I guess he heard it with a single sentence I uttered to that assassin, whom I'm not that bothered, unlike Bart, who keeps watching me, as if I was a stranger, more than I was on our first sight. I do not speak that very often about my past to other people, so it's understandable for Bart to carry on of this doubt, of many.

— The rain and these clothes do made me into another person, don't you think?... – I said. I may had asked it to Bart, but I already knew the answer. It was a single question, per se, but nothing is as simple as it appears to be.

From that and many other moments, I am still wondering to myself why I had gotten outside the sandstorm, that used to protect me, to walk into the rain. I may be a little confused about who I am today, with the who I was back into the life I've spent at the settlement found atop the Yggdrasil, known as Cleyra, or the 'city of Illusions', though Cleyra ain't big enough, or even share of economics to be called by 'city'. So... am I a Highwind, or not? Maybe. The Highwinds from the legend can be related to me, this if I had some document to prove that.

My words, alone, aren't that much of a document. I'm am an only person, unlike the many Kings who reigned over Burmecia, whose story is mixed with the history, both who had been mainly made by words, and only a few documents, written in archaic symbols, not words belonging to the standard alphabet, as they were translated centuries after, into compact books. From a thousand parchments, came an only book, with a hundred pages, and this book is a collection of manuscripts written by Gizamaluk, when he was a Burmecian. Our warrior code, written in a book, once gross enough, heavy as double swords on both hands, can now be compacted enough to be fit in our pockets. If many rolls of ancient parchments can be later revised into two hundred fifty pages, then why not can't I tell my story in a single sentence?

No, maybe not. A sentence isn't enough. To share of my history while I walk isn't a good option either. The memory also counts, as I can only remember a few things. My father, Richter Highwind, was a Burmecian, a warrior like I am disguised into, same for his. Before, he threw away the youth belonging to his, to become a street rat, roaming in the kingdom for some fights. He was not that good of a person, and neither a puke to be thrown into the street. It was then that he became a member of the army, as much as I, and my uncles had become soldiers as well. How ironic, seeing how much father despised soldiers, even went on trouble with some Royal Guards once, and now, from that moment onwards, he had became one of them. Father also never had commited murder on the scoundrel days of his, until he came to be a member of the army, where any enemy killed by his became more ratio to his bowl.

It was then that, during an expedition, a training on this same Vube, that father got lost in the middle of a huge sandstorm. Many who had gotten lost on that same day dissapeared as well, only for their bones to be found near the Antilon's traps, or some alive, in the middle of the dunes, or what they thought to be a sort of oasis, with their mouths filled in by sand, same who took away their throat's moistures, and hope as well, until other soldiers came to their aid. A friend of father, who shared of a few, ended up on that way, unlike father himself. That reckless behavior of his became his salvation, somehow. At first, it was a single trunk, but when his sight recovered, father was in the presence of the City of Illusions, also known as Cleyra, the settlement secluded from the main world by that huge sandstorm, same I saw before, and so many times I had, inside and outside the same.

As the sun settles down, and the sky turns orange, I recall the days I used to live inside the sandstorm. A thing Cleyrans usually do is to lift their heads to look above, where they can see the day, or the night. On a same way a stranger in Burmecia awfully notices the rain falling into their clothes, father must have felt the same as many who lived outside Cleyra must had felt as well. I said lived, because many who stay for a week enough, they also turn into Cleyrans as well. Even with the secession, and the ties severed with our Kingdom, the Cleyrans accept those souls who came there, no matter from where any kind of people who came across such place was born, or lived into.

Negotiations between the Kingdom of Burmecia and Cleyra usually happen year after year, King after King, Priest after Priest, and their results don't seem to be that optimistic. Althought, Cleyrans still hold of same intent to purify the disturbance of the wandering souls, who ended up on those sacred grounds, like father. That's their kind of nature, unlike the one belonging to the Burmecians soldiers, many of those who would be later converted into Cleyrans after a few days they stood in that settlement. Same also happens in Burmecia, as it happened with me, and the first contact I had with the Baptism of the rain who blessed my body, and changed more than my wardrobe.

Prior that, father stood on that place for two weeks, where, besides knowing about the main fountain, whose water is pulled from deep beneath the underground reservoir to those heights, the observatory, who is able to see the main desert throught the sandstorm, the chapel, where the people pray for the sandstorm and its strenght, and, more than the air that made his lungs a bit breathless, Rhiannoa, or the woman that later would become my mother.

For my father, many kinds of women were candidates to be his wife, but none of then shared of the same to be compared with mother. She was the maiden whose task consisted on watering the plants, all kinds who resided into the settlement, even the poison ivies that causes of many rashes around the skin. That's part of their belief to accept all the things, no matter how hard they say otherwise, but there's always a way to give a second chance, instead of apologies. The Cleyrans accept of nettles and ivies in their gardens, as much as they accept the presence of Burmecians on their grounds. Their ancestors were also Burmecians as well, who shared of the taste of war, whom the Cleyrans deny solemny, to all living beings. Their only protection against the enemy, if there's one to them, is the sandstorm, who kepts then hid from the main world, full of good people, and assassins as well.

They, the Cleyrans, say that those who stood on Cleyra always return on same place someday. To make that happen, father became one of them, when he married Rhiannoa, for whom he felt more than love, in a sense that stood before he met with Rhiannoa, and the dance of Pales executed by her, and others like her, but he only paid attention to her, and the way she danced, waved that hair, inside the chapel, with the sound of a harp playing its chords.

It's interesting that, in Burmecia, and in other countries as well, except Treno, the full exercise of prostitution is harshly condemned, due to its nature be against the public morality, and, considering Burmecia, because it deviates from the main purpose of reproduction, and besides being a banal and improper way to feel plently of pleasure, it also contributes for many cases of sterility, diseases, and children without fathers, althought the same couldn't be said centuries ago, even prior the foundation of same Kingdom. Before the monotheism of an only God, the civilizations that came before Burmecia shared of many gods. A god tasked for anything; the sun was the god who brought they the heat, the water was the God who brought they the oasis, and so it goes on. Idols that represented the image of gods were also made by other tribes, who also shared of their rituals, and their gods.

Mainly the women participated of same rituals, due to their attractiveness, varying from tribe to tribe. While some women belonging to a tribe were attractive to the male ones due to their fat, unlike today, others had their nipples mutilated, alike how the Vastitas belonging to their kingdoms used to do, on their temples, same where the act, the contact the devadasis had with the goddess, and the mortals, used to happen. Same kind of ritual, now deemed as prostitution, used to happen in Burmecia as well, before Kain and his descendents successfully erradicated and prohibited of same cults, mainly made by those who once were Vastitas, or so that's described by the many pieces of well-preserved codices and manuscripts left from that century.

Besides the codices, the clothes and dances the devadasis whore back in those days persisted as well, with the Cleyrans. Richter decided to stay at Cleyra, until his wife gave birth to two of his only children: Me, and my sister, Niahm. When infant, I was raised in the outskirts of this settlement, until I turned 7, when father came back from Burmecia, to retrieve me from that place, the heat of the desert, to the cold brought by the rain, or so I felt that cold, before father changed of my clothes, and name as well. You can give Kain as the name of your son; though he won't be remembered by anyone else, besides his family, the family he created to be his own, alike the friends of his when alive. But if you are a King, and the Prince's name becomes Kain, that's another story.

But, you know, legend is legend, but unlike legends, people do change with time. As much as Cleyrans are kept hid by the sandstorm, Burmecians are kept under the rain; the others above the Mist, and the Mist kept our world hid from our sight. Once, I had been called by Hyuuga, but since there's no ounce of sunlight around Burmecia, unlike the one I used to see at Cleyra, I became Prescott since then, as my father became a Priest on the way back to home, his home. When Cleyrans come to Burmecia, they are forced to change their names, some luckily still maintaning the original meaning, yet all their names are spoken in full new words. When I grew up, I decided to return to Cleyra, my first home. Mother may had passed, unlike my sister, who grew up as much as me, and how she had grown up, alike that hair.

Since children, the female Cleyras learn to comb their hairs. If their hair isn't grew up already on youth, then she ain't a woman, but a girl. As they grown up, they start to wear less clothes, until they reach the maturity, when they wear those dresses, peach alike the fruit, gentle as the petals of a flower. Others garments include jewels wrapped, instead of an only neck, in both feet, a circlet around the neck, alike the bracelet in both arms, but those are details, unnoticed for those who only perceived of their dance, their dresses, and hair as well. The Cleyrans wear those dresses when preparing, or when they do the ritual dance, althought many wear of same dress like today's clothes.

When pregnant, or older, these women hid their bodies, on a same way they used to be when children. Naturally, the hair and its strands tend to fall on such age, as their remaining task left is to make a girl's hair belonging to her offspring to grown down, as the child grown up, until she becomes a woman...

**...**

****

— ...Yes, yes. You already told me that before. Isn't there anything else you might share with me, instead of bad news? Or a bad wound left on my brother?

— I'm sorry about that – that Prescott said, looking at me, while sipping of a warm tea. The sand of outside sure was that hot, seeing how a bit of sand poured down to his tea. He didn't bothered, as if the sand was part of his life, and why wouldn't? He's a Cleyran, after all. Half-Cleyran, to be fair, and also half of what me, and Bart, are, since birth – I didn't wanted that to happen with Bart. I failed once again, didn't I?

— Of course not, Prescott. You had the bones to carry on of such weight others wouldn't do instead. I'm glad that you brought Bart safe, at least, not in the arm...

— The arm doesn't matter. The wound will heal by itself – he said, sipping another drink of same tea. The smoke came to his face, as much as a sensation of failure came to his as well, even thought Bart is alright, unlike that arm.

— Yet, Bart will still feel a kind of pain, don't he? I don't want to hear of his moans... – this statement makes me remind of the stormy nights, where Bart, afraid as he is, used to hide, not on his own blanket, but mine instead. Not only he was near me, but that kid also cuddled with his arms onto me, as if I was his pillow, and whenever a thunder struck, with the lighting included as fear factor as well, Bart hid in the blanket, cuddling me as well. I guess he used to chose me because I was the one who lied to his, yet when I said that 'it'll be alright', followed by a 'brat', 'mice', or a 'dick' in my thoughts.

Yet, I liked him, still I do like him, not only because Bart is my brother, but because, I don't know, maybe its the responsibility I had with his, since father was gone, and Bart began to piss on the bed as result. I would slap him in the mornings when my nose had found out the smell of his in change of my own smell. Damn... I can smell Bart, on that bed, agonizing of fear, and I can't do anything. Anything, until Prescott stops sipping that tea.

With that mouth, he could sip an entire bowl of soup and the carrots as well. Bart dislike carrots, unless they're prepared by Lenneth, though any food prepared by that lady is pretty, same goes for my darling, prettier than any pretty, unlike the favour I had with Bart, when young, as he offered the carrots to me, and I had to eat them, only because he disliked them, even thought father liked of their taste, or so I told to Bart, who later had eaten them all, whenever mother cooked them to fill in the bowl of soup.

Only because father... how many times I used of the name of father to avoid of Bart's closure, or to approach that brat next to me as well. He said once, and only, that only stood near me, mostly me and mother, but unlike mom's, Bart said that I looked like daddy. I got fooled by that kindness, as much as the Bart when kid was fooled by mine as well. With a single word, I knew I could make him do anything for me, or as I said many times, for father.

"Father was brave, you see, so why don't cha you climb up that tree, damnit?"; I would say, maybe I said it clearly to Bart, back on that day where we climbed that tree near home, same tree where Bart had suffered from a pretty incontinence, same who also happened when he sleeped on his bed. The rain was pretty sour that day, heh... Now that I look at Bart, it ain't funny anymore. Only because he's hurted, I see. When younger, I would be hurted on his place instead, with father, or without his. Mother had her own way to punish me, althought the maximun she would do is to ground me, instead of slapping me.

She didn't had this kind of force, physically, and spiritually as well. Since father went gone forever, mother felt bad each time she had to punish one of her children, including me. So all we had to do was to behave well, even if our thoughts said otherwise. "That's what father would wish of us"; I had to say it, from a time to another, to make them behave well. Only in a few stances, like that one, I used of father's name to do something good, not only for me, and my safety, but for mother as well.

— I can't hear Bart – I said, certain that I would be hearing of his moans. A word, a tantrum, a scream threw right at he nearest one being... anything, but nothing came instead. He was still lying there, like a, a... I would say that he looked like a corpse, but at least, I could see him breathing. Pupils kept close, unlike that nose and mouth belonging to his. Since that age when many start to talk, and many teeth start to fall, the monologue has been Bart's favorite kind of discurss. Same could be said of father, and me, as well. Prescott too, seeing how he just sits there, drinking and drinking.

Many drink to forget, I know it, by proper experience. In the pubs, in the taverns, at home, before the day, after the night... There are even some who drink the water of the rain, althought their intent shown is to remember that the rain, blessing thy skin, exists. Instead of beer, those religious people, devotees Of Bahamut, drink wine instead, and eat bread as well; the blood and body of Kain, as they say.

How many times I had been there, on that bakery, only to prepare of many Kain's bodies, whose spirit, they say, would be there, inside those breads. And the wine turns out to be his blood, because the spirit also flowns into the liquids. I might be wrong, but maybe that's the reason why those bastards name their own sons after their father's names, because the spirit of the old flowns into the liquid. Speaking of liquid, Prescott has finished that sipping of his tea, and I can see that he's now prepared to say something, instead of thinking it.

— You won't hear anything, Clyde – Prescott told me, as if that wasn't the obvious.

— I wish I could... – I said, a futile, meaningless sentence, alike my face, dull like a rock. Prescott couldn't describe if I was sad, upset, or even happy, due to Bart, and the suffering that knife brought to his, before Prescott came to his aid, because I couldn't. All I am doing is complaining, instead of Bart, who should had been complaining about the pain on that arm, as naturally the things should had went, or not. Maybe I'm bit too upset, see, Prescott? Of course, he can see it.

— Well, if you can't hear your brother and his complains, then the sedactive had reach the desired effect – Prescott said, turning to me, after he came near Bart – you see, the seeds I had put on the tea I prepared for Bart to drink before were poppy seeds. Don't worry, because I recall I had administrated a small dosage of this drug before. Your brother, and the brothers of many may had felt of its effects before. He couldn't even understand what we were talking about, could he? You see, all soldiers and their legs had been tired later that day, the one that came before our departure from our homeland. After all that walk, and fights along the way, against their own kind, among themselves as well; some small injuries, others bad ones. Painful aches in the head, a few slight cramps in the feet, we all missing our families, our friends, that was a shock that happened so sudden, alike the pain felt by the hands, the feet, the arms, the body as a whole.

— ...Oh, I see – I said, sure of myself, instead of Bart, whom I knew it was in good hands. Not mine, but, at least, there was someone other than me who was worried about his, and also cared for his safety. Someone who's near him, unlike the homeland so far from there – it was his first time, wasn't it? It seemed so, seeing how his head wasn't right that day. I thought he was fine, because, you know, that's how Bart is.

— I see. His first time numb like that... It reminds me of the day your father stood on same way. Then, he stood like that, for an eternity... – Prescott stood there, next to Bart, and that arm belonging to his. I thought, for a moment, that he was about to complete of his own words, but none were uttered as that look of his went on that knife.

Silence, breath... Prescott just stood quiet, alike Bart, like me as well. He looked at that wound, me as well, but he was near of that arm, and that wound seemed to be near his, sprouting into his own skin. When he looked at that wound, it seemed as if Prescott blamed himself for such to happen. I also did the same, but Prescott blamed himself more, since he was near Bart, unlike me, who stood inside this tent all along.

I didn't even had a chance to protect Bart, even thought Bart is grew up already to protect himself, but Prescott was there, near his, and he had the chance to protect Bart, the son of the father with same name, whom he had to protect once as well. Then, that knife and its tip were pulled out of that arm, and... Red. That's all I can say about Bart's blood. Red alike the coat wore, or used so, by his wife.

My brother, and his arm, felt nothing. Just nothing. Even when I squeeze a pimple, I do feel a sort of pain, no matter how big such is. Well, that's the effect of the poppy, though, each effect has its cost. And I know about them so damn well. As much as there are walls to protect the boundaries of a Kingdom, each individual has a a self-defense mechanism. In order to secure themselves from a fear, for example, they just forget what happened. Though, this sort of thing usually takes many years to happen. For example, the same happens when someone, at the end of a year, like when my wife Cynthia usually says that same year lasted so quickly, because they compare a whole year with the last day.

Yet, this doesn't seems to work with some of us, like Hyuuga, or Prescott, it's the same person anyway, Burmecian as me, or not.

**...**


	27. A Street Scene

[♫Bark Psychosis - A Street Scene♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIa9grhWGus&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=53)

* * *

**July 06, 1778**

**2:00 P.M.**

**...**

The air is heavy. Heavy as a drug.

The weight is enough for his lungs, his kidneys, his relief. Bart woke up, in the middle of the night, a cold night, like many had said to him before. The light coming from the candle wasn't, and isn't enough to bring some heat, outside his body. Yet, Bart is sweating, as if he woke up from a sudden nightmare, where he dreamt of himself, as always, in a third view, like now, when contemplating of his nature. A leaky boat, he thought, in the middle of the sea, storms coming from a distance, he looks at the moons in the sky, because there are no or a few clouds to be seem, the same also happens when comes daylight. Bart wonders why there is a blue, and a red moon. Why couldn't there not be a gray moon, like this? He thought, holding of more than sand pouring down on his palm.

Blankets as well hadn't attained the same purpose of the candle, to bring comfort into the nightseven if the sleep of Clyde, his brother, and Prescott, a brother of his in a way, as he looked up to that wounded arm, who, at least, still was there, instead of being inside a jar, or worse, in his stomach. This kind of thought ran throught Bart's mind, and almost went outside the throat of his, if he wasn't occupied yet, with another leakage. The draining went well, as Bart stepped into the sand, dry to his feet, and watery like an oasis to a short distance, but what's important is that his feet went dry, unlike the days where Bart, alike any child, would be wandering across the wet plains, the roads soaked by the rain falling from the skies. Bart would usually do it in the morning, cold as well, but not like this same cold.

Silly things ran into his mind, but since he is on his own, it's natural to think of those. Clyde often do, anyway, but he ain't the main focuse of Bart's thoughts. If he was, then he would be the perfect aim. His wife and son are far more important, and kind, and lovable than his own brother, a scoundrel that may had made the entire Burmecia taste the bread made by his own hands. Only the hands, Bart thought, briefly looking down, to his both feet, and claws. Then, he looked to his both hands. They shared of many similarities, besides the skin, and the size, the location, and the use. The amount of dirt also had been noticed by his. Bart's hands were clean, the feet as well, althought if sand could be deemed as a kind of dirt, both his limbs are meant to be dirty by now. Bart also noticed that his wounded arm, the right one, was still wounded, yet it was numb, unlike his tail, whom he holded with the other arm, until that work was done. Half-done by now.

Ants walking throught his right arm, or so Bart felt a kind like this. Furred spiders wrapped alike octopuses tentacles sucking his blood like octagonal-shaped men would be more adequate, if not truly adequate. Birds pecking his skin, that tea drank before and its side effects, or maybe those were just speculations, worried ones coming to Bart. Since others, in worse conditions than his arm, drank of same tea to relief the pain, then maybe they are feeling the same, or not. There is pleasure in killing as well, as seem with that assassin, and the way Prescott immobilized his, althought he didn't enjoyed that. Never that guy would enjoy killing a flea, Bart then looked to the tent, same where his comrades were sleeping, and he was just there, asleep, and outside, and left-handed. And daydreaming, or worse, traveling without moving.

By using constantly the left arm, Bart thought for a moment about Lenneth, of the Crescent Clan, and the way she used that hand to ergue the spear, to hold of his hand, to do everything. Wind blew onto his. A nice breeze, he thought, and pretended to say, but the distance of his to the tent wasn't enough for a shout, so all that Bart could do was to appreciate, in silence. With silence, and ears covered by his fingers, he could hear his own blood circulating throught the body, his heart pumping, his patience starting to become meaningless as anything Clyde ever said, or thought to say, or just thought.

The wind who blew before, fortunately carrying on no relative amount of sand reminded Bart of the day that hair waved, freed underneath that helm, red like that coat, and the blood who pumped inside his, and more when she revealed to his those eyes, a purple stain as intense like a headache, yet not enough to make him faint. Even that name, Lenneth, was uncommon like her whole appearance, besides the face, the first of many things Bart had noticed to belong to his dear Lenneth. He swears, and who else wouldn't notice that red coat before the ribbon tied into that tail? Such thing present after the birth of many that doesn't get any attention, any kind of affection, any kind of love, like Lenneth.

Finished, halfway through the way to the bed, and Bart knew more about Lenneth, and who she was, besides being a Crescent in blood. When with Lenneth, Bart used to forget which one weared the trousers. That bothered him on the first days, since she was a Dragoon Knight, a skilled one, of course, but a Leviathan Knight. Many, including Clyde, thought with the eyes, and gossips, that Lenneth, not Bart, went hanging on with Bart, only because of his family, the Brandford, and not the contrary. Even if that was the story, about how Bart supposedly fooled Lenneth to be with his, only because of her family and legacy of same, Bart would never be into a relationship only for this kind of interest.

Maybe Clyde would, since he only married with Cynthia because of her attributes, or maybe Bart is wrong. He might be wrong, because Cynthia was his brother's friend since childhood. It was the only woman Clyde allowed, besides mother, to be closer to his. Because they were childhood friends, and because she grew up to become that beauty, so they married, or maybe they don't. Anyway, Clyde got what he wanted, even if he did refused to want at first, but deep inside, he wanted her. Laying down, Bart had drawn a comparasion between his brother and himself, on the way his brother had gotten Cynthia to his, and how Bart had gotten Lenneth to his, or how Lenneth got Bart to her. She was just another woman, pretending to carry on the family name, he thought when they first meet, even before they knew each other by the look, and the days that succeded the first look, the vision that slowly didn't remained the same anymore, althought the shock of a first impresion had made the effect already, and never on same way as before.

A Dragoon Knight, Leviathan class, and me, just someone who can be found anywhere, doing anything... who thought that Bart and Lenneth would end up, with each other? It may not had been on same way as father ended with mother, Bart thought, with his head, as he thought before, once again, about Lenneth. She is his favorite topic, not in conversation, but thoughts. On conversation, he talks less than the words he thought to talk; not too quiet, but not too liveless, althought many see him as the 'quiet'. There's no such a thing as silence, Prescott said, when talking about how grass grows, speculating as well about how silence is just a term to describe the sudden lull of the sea, and how the ear focuses on kinds of sounds, a few sounds instead of a thousand being the 'silence' all beings appreciate.

'If there is silence, then why the wind exists to break such?', Prescott learned this, and many others, statements when on a traveling across Gaia, or so he intented, and still does have the intention to do it so. Of many places belonging to the world, Prescott had been on Esto Gaza before. Known as a sacred settlement for pilgrims, being isolated from the main world, located into the cold lands of another continent, many, mostly religious people, seek Esto Gaza to find of the meaning of silence, the lull of the stormy sea, as Prescott would say. Half of the world still needs to be explored, he would say, as all he can do is to choose, between walking in the world known, and to face the unknown of the world.

Burmecia, in general, is unknown for many, yet that Kingdom and its people belong to the known world, the Mist Continent, althought mostly the population of the continent reside atop the hills, plateaus, where Alexandria, Lindblum, even Treno had been founded, prior the sucession of many wars between themselves, and the creatures who resided below, still do, in the depths of the valleys covered by same Mist. For Bart, who changed like many on these days, there is no such Mist, not because he, or the others, are currently settled on Vube's desert, where there's no Mist, possibly due to the sacred grounds, but sandstorms coming from Cleyra, secluded of the main world on same way as Burmecia remained secluded, by the rain, and the Mist as well.

Grey like the clouds, grey like the dead, grey like the Mist; the Burmecians, for Bart, are the Mist of the entire continent. Same Mist who obscured the history, and the vision of many, in general. Not lices, or the lack of sanitation, but rats coming from the sewers below, the slums above, are the ones who caused of many plagues, and many wars as results of mistakes commited by the blind ones. A Kingdom to be called their own, and a God to be called their own as well; they, both sides of same table, one who stood above the hills, and another who stood below the rain, to seek their own kind of God, a God who is three, and three who are seven, a conquerer of many cities whose name is the name of Alexander; up in the sky, the wet of dry lands, the rain falling from the sky, dragon or not dragon, a savior by the name of Bahamut, and the demigod Leviathan. Alligators aren't born of the mud, but flies can be born of the exposed meat, because that's how they, alike many living beings, are born: Born of the flesh, dirty as the mud, or clean as the feet of clay.

'One thing at the time'; those words echoed for Bart, words once uttered by his father, his mother, and Prescott as well. Bart could even hear them all saying such thing, except that the same couldn't, and cannot be said for everything, like the financial point of view. Prescott also told to his, including Clyde, before this day about Lindbluniam people who work in the factories belonging to the industrial district, or sell things in the market district, and how production, including anything, from clothes sewed of silk to barrels where cucumbers turn into pickles, increases in the factory whenever there's light, or not, and about how the price of same products later sold at the market lowers when there are less products to be sold, unlike how the price increases to such great heights when there's a surplus of, for example, cereals, the basic of the foods.

Only because these people are part of an experiment, and because they want to improve with themselves, as a whole. This also counts for the army soldiers, whenever their ratio is reduced, no anger is seem, but improvement over what the main commander see as a failure. Now that Komakino's work is done, Sigurd took his place, but that meant nothing, since Sigurd was the one who mostly gave orders to Komakino, who repassed them to the remaining soldiers, alike Bart, or his brother, or his cousins. Everyone is a cousin when it comes to be a Burmecian, but some with same blood are more closer than those with another blood.

Since Bart, alike many soldiers, had been on this desert, the diminished ratio didn't mattered, like before. Only their relationships between the local Libers, and the enduring of that heat, and this cold, that comes every night. Blankets would be there, awaiting for Bart at home. Since he was young, and since the youth and its impulse overcame his, as a whole. His entire life seemed to be an experiment, and all Bart had to do was to improve, and still he does. Not only he do improve, but Bart also helps others to find a way of improvement. His main job, or used to be back at home, was to find anything he could do, no matter how hard such task was: To grab some lemons out of a neighboor's spiky tree, to fish some tilapias out of the lake, polish some dirty windows and nails, to kill some Basilisk before they petrified another child; anything so he could be recognized by its efforts, and to feel proud of doing it so.

Payment sometimes came into his hands, mainly due to the fishmonger's demand to many mouths, including the ones belonging to his own offspring, only to slip away from his. They call it by solidarity, althought Bart also intends to promote solidity, in many ways, mainly the ties between people, and their relationships. Even when he doesn't, they still happen, yet what guides Bart to do it so, if there's another that could be on his place instead? Another...Clyde was already his another. This also counted for the Dragoon Knights as well. They all would be there, on the streets, doing a favour to the people. Instead of turning out to be a Dragoon Knight, Clyde had a short career as a Royal Guard, but seeing how much he despised those at the palace, or so that's half of what Bart can understand about his own brother, he them became a baker; from the hands that killed to the the hand that feeded.

A thought about all kinds of breads eaten once came across Bart's mind, whom he replied with nothing but swallow the food into his throat. For Bart, it was wrong to waste any kind of food, or so his mother told to him, when alive, like his father, Clyde's father as well. But, forget about Clyde... He already occupied the void of his thoughts, his recognition, his hopes, his own soul as a whole, until Lenneth came to his life. She already had a life, like him, before. 'A life without a sort of pain can't be considered a kind of life', she told to him, as much as she told him of her many secrets, or slices of situations that already happened on her life, all seemed to be related to pain, including happy moments, if there was one. One of Lenneth's past life moments Bart mostly recall about was the one when she, as a child, broke her right arm when she tumbled with her feet downstairs. By her descriptions, it all seemed, and also ran, as a funny thing, to laugh with.

Her mother had already told to her before to walk in the stairs by holding the banisters, but did she agreed with? Which kind of child would listen to his parents before knowing by themselves the injuries left? Of course, Bart never laughed, or ever thought such event to be considered funny, not even Lenneth, seeing how she forced that smile upon his face, same smile that happened to be there whenever she was ready, she never was, to bear a burden right at the face. Seeing her face as well, anyone near could notice that she was lying, except that she wasn't, or so half of her told it so. Half of Bart also used to believe she was afraid of telling the truth, by turning a tragedy into a comedy, or so that's what all we do. Clyde mostly, but his kind of humour ain't the one to laugh with. You are the one that shall be laughed by his, but damn, can't Clyde be away from a single moment of my life? That's what Bart would tell to himself, except when he starts to think about Lenneth.

Bart, on that age, never wondered to himself if she, that lady, that pretty, that rat, thought about his, from that moment and onwards, if there was at least one onward for both. There wasn't, as they were just less than friends, but more than talking heads. Tastes like fish; Bart recall saying it when he was a child, after his brother, always Clyde, came to be into that lake, those kinds of lakes, pretty shallow ones, where orange and white, any kind of carp with any kind of color for their skin lives, but even a bowl of soup isn't small enough for a kid who ended up drowning into one of these. At the lake, and that bowl of soup, to choke with his own saliva as well; Lenneth would be laughing out loud, but not that loud, a rather shy laugh, hidden by those claws, that palm, those cheeks... They didn't turned red, but instead, they stood grey, alike how they stood for Bart as well. He used to wonder if Lenneth could choke with her own laugh...

...Was that funny? Bart didn't bothered about that, though he had kept that same doubt. When the suffering of another turns out to be something funny, like how Clyde once felt inside a manhole, and got stuck in there because he was too fat, or so Bart said to his, whom Clyde answered with a slap on his face, and a kick in the eye, and so the grey of his face turned in red, not because of shame, but the red of same blood. Once again, Clyde... It seemed as if he was his only brother, though Bart had others. Martin, Stuart, Arthur, Jack, Dario... they weren't that interesting. Just common rats. Though they had their own lifes, interesting ones in theory, Bart never had been able to interact that much with them. Some were too old, still are, some younger than his, not that young by now, since they are all married, or surrounded by possible affairs. They do not interact with each other even now, only Clyde, as it seems.

In short, Bart doesn't care about his brothers, neither they do for his, and Clyde... well, 'the one who laughs mostly is the one who suffers the most', or so that was what his father told to his. Lenneth also had some sisters, and a few brothers, but they were all a bunch of brats, except one. Lenneth didn't seemed, as always, to be interested in that subject, about her brother, or so that thing was meant to be one; that's what she said, and always said, before the silence comes in. How awful the conversation they had became, after the mention of that 'brother' by Lenneth. Awful was the silence as well, when they walked together, and on their own as well. But when tomorrow came, they had already forgotten about that, as they kept talking as usual.

Sometimes, instead of two, a third person would be there as well. Clyde used to walk between his brother and Leneth, for whom he had an eye, even thought he had been making out with Cynthia since the childhood. Cynthia often would be horrified to see two young kids in a fight, not because of her, but because of themselves. She would be playing with her dolls instead, alike Lenneth, and her sisters. Luckily, for Bart, most of the times, it was Theresa, one of Lenneth's sisters, equally beautiful, like any lady who resembled of his own mother, that would be there, to follow both in their walk, and their conversation.

Althought Theresa was a better option other than his own brother, Bart would be a bit bothered towards her, and that habit she had, to stop between the walk, only to talk. Maybe she still carries on of same habit, but that's only a guess of Bart, since it happened a long time ago, when they did meet each other in a walk, other than tea parties, or chai parties, or baby parties, whatever is the name of the ceremony other than marriages that makes women glued, attached to each other.

Speaking of things attached, that spear used to be on her hand. Bart has its own spear, and dagger as well, alike any other man belonging to the army. The Dragoon Knigths are a sort of army as well, he thought, however, they can't be seem beyond the boundaries extended across the Kingdom, where they live, alike any other Burmecian. Instead of a dagger, they only use a spear, a pike, a javelin, anything that resembles a wooden piece with a blade on its tip. Althought swords are heavier, spears can be holded by an only hand, but that doesn't mean that they aren't that heavy. Lenneth told to his once, that, because of that same childhood accident, she could only use the left hand to do what the right one had done before that.

Even thought Lenneth can move both of her hands, she and her main movements had been attached forever to that left arm. And how could she become a Dragoon Knight then, with the spears mainly made for the right-handed? That was another of many things that Bart saw on that lady, and had been admiring her for that since them. Maybe it was a family thing, but the efforts Lenneth had to manuever that spear with the left arm, even thought the weight, the pain, the fear had been trying to difficul her task on the way she had been following since a childhood dream, other than the brave men, and a few women, running throught her family's blood.

But families aren't just made of pure blood, as much as any kind of water ain't pure. There are lead vines everywhere, of course, but Bart wasn't one of their kind. To help Lenneth more than she had been doing to Bart and people of their kind, he 'made' a spear to be carried on by that left hand, on same way as his own hand did, or so he desired to be this way, for both sides of his. Truth to be fair, that was a right-handed light spear all along, but Bart just had to say to her it was special, that it became that special. A sort of deception, but for a good cause, after all.

As soon as Lenneth learned to hold on that spear on her left hand, by following of the trust she had with that kind man, it took only a month for other spears, made of better material, like iron, copper, brass or mythrill crystals, to be carried on by same hand, with less mistakes made and the performance slightly improving along the days. Anyone could had given that same light spear and ordered Lenneth to hold that on her left hand, but the only who had done it so was Bart, and which effect could had happened if it was someone instead than his? He knew Lenneth, not alike Theresa, or her mother, or her father knew her, no one knows who she is even now, mainly the Dragoon Knight she had become, alike any person belonging to that family. Some had tried, others succeded; Bart was the only one who fitted into both alternatives.

...Only to be recognized? Only to conquer her? Only to hold more than her left hand? Bart had been doing everything for Lenneth since them, as much as she had been doing a lot for his protection as well. On the days that came after, he delivered more than mere gifts for that Lenneth. It began with flowers, calla lilies, her favorite, then yoshinos, blossoms followed of those redish fruits, blueberries, red and blue, purple, alike her amethyst eyes, hid by that silver, maybe its white, hair, and its white strands, his laurel strands, her colorless strands, unlike that portrait he painted for her, wearing that lime dress, okra, orange trousers, orange ribbon, nice tail, nice ears, grey ears, grey body, gray tail, purple eyes, wine, white strands, chamomile, red coat, strawberries, cherries, pomegranates, plums, opuntias, rhubarbs, radishes... until he had found himself preparing the dinner, to be later laying on that same bed, inside that same house, staying with that same Lenneth.

Her, the Burmecian, the Crescent, the Dragoon Knight, the child, the maiden, the mother, the love of his life, thought to be gone, yet brought in not by his arms, but a single thought, as usual. And that wound, left on that right arm? Well, the pain, almost gone, didn't mattered, as much as it didn't for Lenneth, and her own arm, or Bart's arms, or those tiny hands belonging to their son, Jack.

**...**


	28. Storms

[♫Fleetwood Mac - Storms♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFL4GS0Sn7Q&list=PLi2LnK5cla-Pt5__QAm9j0CjgkxSchK_2&index=55)

* * *

**IX - XII**

**30 minutes after Jack's bedtime**

**...**

****

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff...

Damnit. I can't believe it... Sniff!

Of all the boys of Burmecia, I am the only one who got a cold. I can't even sniff or taste food like before, and constantly, my nose keeps getting stuck with this warm muck, that keeps falling, and falling, unless I... SN-NI-IF! Unless I pull it back, or if I blow it over a cloth. It is still early to blow it away from my nose, since it is still flowing as a liquid, so whenever I need to pull it back, I just snifff with the force of a hundred men. I doubt those men ever had gotten a cold, at first place. Runny nose sure sucks. As if I was drowning man, it keeps running me out of air. Well, for what else do I have a mouth? If only the air that comes in and out of my mouth was warm as the one that used to go in and out of my nose, then I would give it a chance, but they are over by now.

To think I dirtied my both hands with mud, alike Dan does with its fingers... sniff... Gappys, huh? He touched that nose with that finger so many times, and still hadn't he got an infection already, but me, who stood on his side... It can't be. I can't believe it. Damn you, Dan. You lucky moron. You, and that finger of yours! A-CH-OOO! sniff... I can't punch Dan, so this pillow tastes my fists. How soft it is, but Dan isn't soft, because he got bones that shall be broken. If I see Dan once again, another tooth shall be taken from that dirty mouth of his, I can say for sure. Wait, am I sure of how I got this... SNIIFF!... cold? Sob... Why? Why am I crying? Why am I crying, for Dan? Is it because he is... innocent? So, am I guilty? Wait... this ain't a tear. Snif-f-f... That's only muck, that felt like tears, from my nose, the same place I was thinking to punch Dan tomorrow.

Forget it, Jack. I was so careless, then and now. Oh, how could I think of hurting Dan with such stupid matter. Idiot. Idiot! Id-Hey! Calm down... Sob. What will you got by hurting yourself instead of Dan, who isn't even there? Choo!... sniff. At least, it does seems that Fratley is okay. Sniff!... Thought he stood with us all this time, he seemed to have gotten nothing bad of ours, just good reception. Then, Why don't you try to do the same, Jack? Sniff... Okay? Okay. Good, let's see... Lennie sure made a delicious soup with the vegetables she took from the kailyard. Well, I had to take them, because she couldn't on her own, as much as I couldn't make that soup by myself, but, at least, taste it.

I recall I raised that same basket to her own hands, as if that was the the maximum I could reach, approach near that face, that smile, though she didn't grabbed that basket, either because it was too heavy for her, which I disagree with, because sure it was heavy for me, but Lennie is taller, alike tha tail. To end up taking a cold only because of the rain is a silly thing, however I still have a hand full of fingers, and suspicions as well. Those didn't, and don't seem to matter, unlike a back who's hurt enough by the weight of that chest. Lennie couldn't even turn her back to hold of that same basket, because of how small I am, and how tall she is, and how painful was that back.

Sniff... not even this cold is enough to compare with that pain. Not even a smile was given to me, or a thanks frankly said. I said frankly, because Lennie knew how to gratefully congratulate me, besides that soup. Unfortunately, I couldn't feel its taste, because of this nose, who got stuck of this yuck muck. Because of this cold, I had been ordered to rest on this same bed, by same Lennie, who somehow knew that I had gotten a cold even before I knew it.

Sniff. That's why she boiled some onions, whom I also took from that garden, without knowing that they would be my treatment, instead of another ingredient belonging to that soup, who I wished to my tongue to have tasted it, seeing how much Lennie had been enduring of that pain, and how much care she brought to me, and that soup, and the way she found to bring me of same comfort, like the texture, or surface, or whatever my tongue forgot to taste, of that soup... Sniii... sniff!

Yet, look at me. I never offered a breakfast, lunch or dinner for Lennie, or ever said to her, right at that face, that she needs to rest for awhile, even after all she had done for my sake, and her own as well. Not even a 'good morning' to be delivered whenever she wakes up, because Lennie always woke up, still do wake up, before I do. When morning comes, I just want to keep laying on this same bed, unless I want to pee, on the toilet, or on this bed. Sniff. I used to do it so, but seeing how Lennie is trying hard, I guess I just stopped doing it on bed because it was either too childish, for someone grown up like this, or because that was another excuse to put myself out of commission, to put Lennie out of her rest, whom she deserves, after all, yet I always seems to be taking that same rest and comfort belonging to her to be replaced to my own comfort, as I throw away my grief to her shoulders, or her back as well.

I can't say sorry, or anything that sounds like an apology, for Lennie, so I hug this pillow. Sni-i-i-if... I don't know if Dan is the type that agrees to apologies with hugs, but this pillow seems to agree with me. So soft it is, yet there are no bones to tell if this hug is enough. I think I never had given a hug to someone, besides mother. She used to hold those arms into me, as I do with this pillow, and never let me fall, well, only on sleep she would let me fall into. Daddy kept doing the same when she was gone, this until she come back, or so do happen with all families. Dan's, Fratley's... the same for all. In the beginning, they hold us, they feed us, they teach us how to walk, on a same way how are we supposed to talk; then as we grown up, we hold on ourselves, we feed on our own, we walk with our feet, and talk with our mouth, thought I can talk with myself without moving those lips... Knit...

Lips... sniff. Mother used to kiss me, I know she do. While in bed, I had to drink some chai, which was kinda good, and then later smell some onions boiled in water by Lennie. Another of those grandma's stuff, who seems to be alive as she is. Lennie somehow felt bad, as much as mother would be for me. Mother... I had the oportunity to say that word, didn't I? I could have said that, but would Lennie ever had perceived of such word, on that state, my state? Sniff... I guess she wouldn't, but I also said that I could, not that I can't. 'Be my mother, and I'll be your fool', that's what would sound like, but I don't want to sound like that. I do not. No more that I want that... SNIFF! No more... Knit...

Lennie always seems to be always woke up, even after she tells me to sleep, with a good night spoke by her, to me, and only me. I know a child like me needs a good night of sleep, but what about Lennie? Knit...She may be an adult, but wasn't she a child before? Well, she has a child inside her, inside that chest. Besides me, Lennie is also taking care of my little brother, which hadn't been born yet, thought I can hear a familiar sound. The sound of two wooden objects hitting each other... Knit Knit...

The rain has it sound, but as soon as I spent an entire life underneath it, I can't even perceive such sound, the same for its smell, that becomes a daily thing. Damn! SPLAT! Mosquitos... they bother me as well. The rain may be pleasant, but the sound of those mosquitos isn't. Good thing is that they are easy to be spotted, just by this irritating melody, and the bad thing is that the blood they usually left on your hands might be yours. Knit Knit... A sort of reckoning aside, I still can hear those wooden sticks colliding, emitting of a sound, somehow pleasant as this rain. Unlike the rain, they come from inside the house, inside that room, above the orange floor, into mother's room...Knit... Knit Knit... Sniff... ...Knit... Knit Knit... Knit...

...Knit... Knit Knit... ...Knit... Knit... Knit... Knit... Knit... Knit... I wish I could see the moon from the window. All I can see are the clouds, and the rain pouring from beneath them, as usual. It's a calm rain, to be appreciated with same silence, or less than. Storms used to ran over these lands, and still do, but this night, they sound different, or do not have a sound either. The lightning brought by the thunder, as the sound that used to force myself to put my head under the blanket, vanished, unlike the sound of these sticks made for knit, and the light coming out of a gap in the middle of the clouds, a light that resembles the same brought by the sun in daylight, the light of what they call by moon in a distance, yet so close.

...Knit... Knit... Knit... ...Knit Knit... Knit... ...Knit... Knit... Knit... ...Knit. Full of holes as a cheese, or craters like the face of the old, they say there are two moons, so which one should I choose? While one is red, the other is blue. Nobody knows who is the real one, yet they still remain called as moon, for both sides. Red or blue, the moon is gray, as we, and its pieces that keep falling down, like every one of us, like each leaves of same trees that raised from same soil. I won't fall yet, as much as I won't let you fall... Never I'll do.

...Knit Knit Knit Knit Knit Knit... ...Knit... Knit... Knit Knit... I can see Jack from behind the door. I can't see the moon, but I can see from the window what seems to be a picture of Jack, and the pieces of his. He insists to be kept hid by the door, whom I used to keep close from his eyes, and curiosity. And energy. Jack used to move around this entire house ever since he learned to walk, and run by consequence. And how he used to run... He couldn't even sleep because of the energy carried on by his, unless Bart told him of a lullaby, like he used to do when holding of same toddler on his arms.

Even before he learned to walk, Jack used to be awake in the crib, still standing in the corner of this room; not a single termite had eaten the wooden legs for this day, you see. Well, his eyes gazed upon us, me and Bart, and we felt rather awkward on such times ...Knit... Knit... Knit... Knit... Soon as Jack had gotten a room to his own, and I a room to share with Bart, and only. But now you'll also share of this room, of this same crib, and of this same piece of cloth I'm knitting. I had not that much of time as Bart had to take care of Jack, or even be with his before the sleep, and be there to tell his to have good dreams. I couldn't even hold him on my arms on those times I went home with a wounded limb.

So, with a broken arm, came the broken promises, and the lies that used to fix what still is broken. Like a child hiding below the pillow, afraid of listening to the storms, I keep telling lies, and still I do, due to how I feel when they are told... Knit... Knit... Knit... ...Knit Knit Knit Knit Knit... Knit. A sense of relief, to be fair. Unlike the sense of security, I only do this relief for my sake. It's a selfish relief, attained by each lie I told, for your father, for your brother, for myself, and maybe you too. Lies can become the truth at some point, as a man also becomes a Burmecian. They may not share of same tail, or claws, but they also share of same head, same intelligence, different skins.

We all share of a kind of skin, so our flesh and bones remain hid from others, because they do need, by nature. But that nature isn't the same for the lies we kept, or what we insist to keep close. ...Knit Knit Knit... Knit Knit Knit... ...Knit... Knit... Knit... For those who are hid, or remain so, there is at least one who seeks. I can't tell which one, if me or Jack, is the seeker, and who is in hiding. Maybe we are seeking and hiding from each other at same time.

...Knit Knit... Knit... Knit... However, you can't be everything at same time, as much as I couldn't be a Dragoon Knight, or a mother figure at same time, space, and world. There is one who seeks, and hids, with a physical barrier, and another invisible for both eyes. We both share of barriers, walls, all created by ourselves to protect us from others, and others from us. But we all end up hurting ourselves, and the others by result. Yet, I do feel fine, as they do feel well too... Knit... Knit... Knit... Knit... ...Knit... Knit...

...Knit Knit... Knit... Knit... Knit Knit... Knit... Sniff. I guess Lennie didn't noticed the sound of my feet, as much as she never noticed me when wearing of that dragon skin, as cold as I turned out to be without her, this if I had been left alone, but daddy always seemed to be there. Now he doesn't. Lennie received a message about daddy. It wasn't him who wrote that same message, and how could he, with a wounded arm? Well, look at you, with a wounded heart, and a wounded else. Why only you, if Lennie is by far the one who have more wounds left in this room, this house, this life more than yourself, Jack? And, guess who's the one who left many of these wounds you are now trying to sew with a needle, resulting in more pain than relief?

Well, she did noticed I got a cold. Only when I am hurt that Lennie seems to notice me, as much as I do with her as well. Heck, she even keeps standing on that chair, knitting that green piece of cloth, a baby's cloth, or maybe a kid's cloth. Well, instead of preparing new clothes when my brother grown up, I may share of some clothes belonging to my wardobre, or so Lennie will order me to do. She always orders me to do things, even when I disagree with them. But, on the garden, I dug the earth on my own, didn't I? Or was it because of Lennie once again? Did she noticed me, or did I noticed her? I had done that because of me, or because of her? Her? HER? Knit Knit Knit Knit Knit...

...Knit Knit Knit. No, it's just Lennie. You fooled me this time, sure you had. But, this time, it was so real. To think it was all a deception, but that hand and those lips said otherwise. They tried to say, and almost got me into their intentions. Half of me, to be fair. I would say those things on my head before, but now... it's meaningless. This Lennie... Consider this motherly attitude of yours as a sicky thing too! Thought, I somehow would like to share of same disaese, to be infected by her warmth instead of my own fever. Sniff... Sniff... Sob. Sniff... I recall the taste of my tears. Knit Knit... They are salty, as much as I do. Sometimes I do feel salty, like my pee. I can still hear these sticks being hit. Kinda relaxing, yet melancholic. Why is it so hard to tell her, just a word... just a word?

KnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnitKnit... Knit Knit Knit Knit Knit Knit Knit... Knit. My legs kept moving through the nights, restless as the tail of mine. Once again... Knit Knit. What a relief... Knit Knit... Knit. Oh. No, not this kind of relief. Hum, hum hum hum huuum... Hum hum hum, hum hum hum huuum... Lennie began to hum that song. Mother used to hum that same song to me. I don't know about the lyrics, because I was too young, more than now, but still, I remember this same melody.

But... for who she's humming that? My brother? Yes, that's right. He can't even talk, but at least, he can listen to Lennie, and kick her from inside, unlike me, who kicks her without she notices of such, alike my efforts, who only seem to result in more pain, for Lennie, and for me. What a pain that I am. Yet, daddy, and mother... Sniff. They holded me so carefully. I couldn't even talk, but at least, I could listen, look, touch mother, and that hair, that seems to be falling, being left at the tip of my fingers. I once wished of same hair to belong to my tiny hands, but not these tiny lints at the bottom of my nails.

— Hey, Lennie... – I said abruplty, the first words that came into my mind, althought I tried to say more, but I couldn't. Sniff. I didn't even spoke these words while looking at Lennie. Instead, I faced the floor, or somewhere else, other than her. Not that I'm out of ideas, but because I am out of myself.

— What is it, Jack? – she asked. At least, Lennie, besides those ears, turned into my direction, gazing at me, this me, not the one at the window's glass. For some reason, I want to bite my tongue. No, I can't. If I swallow my tongue... delicious tongue meat. Tongue soup. I like lentils as well. I ate them all, alike the carrots, the radishes, even the watercress, with my teeth, as Fratley suggested. He was there, on that table as well, didn't he? I forgot that he was there as well, eating, or more like, drinking that...

— Soup... – I said, not only in my thoughts, but in my own words as well. It seems that I can talk, by now. Let's see... what I had been thinking about a seconds ago? Oh, that's right – yes... the soup. You know, Lennie, that was a wonderful soup you have made today. I liked its taste – I guess I commited a mistake right here. Lennie might be wondering, sitting on that chair, that I'm lying to her. No, I guess I didn't lied. I'm truthful to myself. I ate and I drank that soup, as much as Fratley did the same as well, thought he is always hungry.

— Well, that's pretty nice, coming from you – she said. For some reason, I feel 'taller' as I should be, by listening of Lennie, and those words. But, for another reason, I also feel like a dog, when its owner tells 'good boy' to him, and then, the dog just stands there, eating that raw flesh threw by its owner – but... Jack. You already told me that before.

— Did I? – Sniff. I guess I did. Now... you better came up with something, or else, this conversation is over. And do you want to waste of this opportunity, do you? Of course not. Daddy would never lose an opportunity, so do I – well, I just came here to say it again, to express how much grateful I do feel regarding the meal I had this day. I do not want you to forget... that... – the words failed with me, as much as I failed with this conversation. Don't forget? Well, look at you, who had forgotten that Lennie is your mom. Don't try to say otherwise, because that's another lie. The truth is that... she is your mom. See it? Can you... see it, Lennie?... Lennie?... LENNIE?... Yaaaaaaaaaaaawn...

Sniff. As I left that giant yawn, Lennie lifted from that chair, and walked towards me, until I felt those arms holding my waist. The pain inflicted around her back didn't mattered, unlike before, when I didn't needed to be holded of this same way. I... can't see cleearly because I am... ra-th-er as-le-eee... asleep? Yawn. Look at her. Look at Lennie. Look at... how much she's blinking those eyees in teh dark, anyone can guess she is faaaaah... falling. Yet, she caan't fall yet, not even on thy bed, or riight now, at this c-o-r-r-i-d-o-r... because of me, 'cause of my brother, becaauseee of this pain that am I me. Sniff.

Word eater... one word, two words, thee words, for words, five word, six words, seven words, eightee word, ninety word, tenth world, twenty ten words, heaven word, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, five teen, sixteen, seven teens, third, forth, hum dead... yaaawnnnghh. My mouth is dry. There's no spit around my lips. Sniff. Sniii-i-i-iff. My nose's phlegm seems to be hardening. This sucks, because my nose's holes gets clogged up, alike my ears. It's like there's a worm stuck in my nose, water inside my ears, and salt inside my throat, or something else that makes water vanish from a cup other than my own throat. Lennie's one, as well.

Looking at that beelly, I can guess she drank much water around these days. My brother sure seems that big, yet they all are tiny, alike my fingers. Pinky, alike... my tongue. I din't ate my tongue. What a relief. So many stretch marks around that belly. There's even one darker gray area, near her navel. Now that Lennie is wearing that dress, unlike any other I usually see her wearing, I can't see them. Or even bother about them. Yet, Lennie keeps holding me like that, as if I am more important than herself. My brother, as well.

Mother... It ain't easy. I don't know. I... I don't know, because I don't want to know. All I want to know are easy answers. Easy answers, for easy questions. Easy love, there's none of that, yet I keep insisting of such. Because... well, because... I don't know. It's easier to keep saying the same thing. Why did this happened? Well, because 'yes'. Why won't this happen? Well, because 'no'. Who keeps saying 'yes' or 'no' for anything? The easygoing ones. I am not such a thing to be called by easygoing, seeing how much I had been of a trouble for they; same can be said about Lennie, and her legs, standing there, below me, like my own legs do when I am in both feet, on my own.

I want to puke right now, but that would mean more trouble for Lennie than being my own kind. Who else to clean the mess about to come out of my throat? Wait... ain't that the same dinner I had with Lennie? No, I can't do that. I really appreciated so much of that dinner, alike that lunch, the soup, the meat, the rice, the bread, the oats... Oats? Do I like them? Not without the milk. I ate so much this day, and I am grateful of that, so I hold of what would be a potential thrown up, as I ended up engulfing of my own puke, bringing the sour down to my throat. Maybe it's because I'm anxious that I wanted to do something, instead of letting Lennie do anything for me, and my sake. But... isn't that what you wanted, or had been awaiting to see?

By cracking a pot, breaking a flower glass, by expressing yourself with the drawings made along this wall, you made daddy, and Lennie as well, do anything for you, even thought I didn't wantedthose drawings to disappear from that wall, the same belonging to this corridor. I can't prepare the lunch on my own, thought daddy, or Lennie, had done it so for so long, yet even close for this now. I'm still growing up, awaiting for my legs be as taller as if , someday, I could tell these chairs and their legs to get bent with themselves, thought, by saying or even thinking about this, I may become someone with the few chairs missing, or so I heard Dan saying it, to Fratley. I don't bother losing one of two chairs from a room, if for the sake of mother, or as I call her by, Lennie.

Instead of puking, I am breathing with my own mouth. My nose is worthless when on a cold, alike my tongue as well. I can't smell, and so, I can't taste the food. To eat, I can do it, without a problem, except the lack of my nose and tongue during meal times. If I smelled that bad, I would rather become scentless like now, and that would happen if Lennie wasn't there, to bath me, or to do it so when I don't wanna. The rain is already a bath meant to be taken when you go outside this house, or whatever is the place I am where a ceiling gets soaked instead of me. It's raining outside, as usual, though I may had felt a small drip of water touching upon my nose. Maybe it was my phlegm, once again, or maybe this ceiling needs of some repairs.

Even tall like that, Lennie can't reach the top of that thing. Althought, she could jump as higher as she could. After all, she is a Dragoon Knight, or used to be. No, she used to wear that coat, and do those training stuff. When Lennie is about to sleep, she takes out that loop, tied at the back of her hair, alike that orange ribbon on that tail, my tail as well, unweaving of that ponytail, same belonging to any mother I saw. Sniff. I can't feel this nose here, but at least, I can feel these strands falling from her head, and thankfully, most of them are kept on that same head. I hold it tightly as I can, even thought those arms are already doing the same to not let me fall into the ground. I pretend to speak, instead of throwing up words from my mouth. I'm sorry, and I miss you.

I'm sorry. Unfortunately, I can't say anything, as soon as I came to where I was before. That same door, that same cold knob, that same hand, that same creak, that same room, that same wardrobe, that same mess of bed, where I lay. I'm sorry, Lennie. Sleep well, she said, as that arm, gray like a stormy cloud, tosses a blanket over me, alike a huge wave from a disturbed sea, and the pillow below my head as as the piece of wood, the remaining debris of a sunken sea, that prevents me from drowning up, except when I submerged on my own wet dreams. I'm sorry, and I miss you. Lennie. I see her, leaving this room, leaving me, your arm, the arm; _my knees, a beeard of beees... My ears, my aarms; your pleas, my fleeeas..._

_Like a roundabout path... walking in my fooootsteps..._ _A plenty of staaares... Submerging in their prospeects..._ _From miles to yaaards..._

_Time is a heaaaleeer... Swallowed by the seeeaaa..._ _If the shaadows could march... Cooome in a high tiiide..._

_My iron tail... My breadcrumb trail..._ _Lay your hands to heaven... Luck for three sevens..._

_I saw a girl flying throught the skyyy... She was rather shyyy..._ _Throw your shaards..._

_I'll shieeld you as a kniiight..._ _Years of kniives... A waaste of tiime..._

_You won't be aloone... Bring the booys back hoome..._

_You won't turn bluue... Under the crescent moooon..._

_Peacheees and creaaaam..._

_A day in the life of a tree..._

_I'm sorry, I_ _miss you..._

— ...Lenneth.

**...**


End file.
